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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23620867">Dream State</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAkumu/pseuds/LadyAkumu'>LadyAkumu</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Action, F/M, Gen, Horror, Mystery, Psychological Drama, Psychological Trauma, Romance, Suspense</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:26:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>52,239</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23620867</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAkumu/pseuds/LadyAkumu</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"Claire Redfield"...was *that* the name in my dream last night? (COMPLETE)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Steve Burnside/Claire Redfield</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 0</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This story is rated M for strong language, violence, gore, and disturbing subject matter.</p><p>I first got the idea for this story in 2010, after I had finished playing "Darkside Chronicles."  In the decade since its creation, this story has undergone two total rewrites and multiple drafts.  It is much like the "Resident Evil" series itself -- and myself -- in that it has undergone multiple changes over the past ten years.  However, the core of this story never changed, and that core can best be described as follows:</p><p>This story takes place in December 2009, the first Christmas after Wesker's death.  It functions as a sequel, narrative successor, and spiritual successor to both "Resident Evil: CODE Veronica X" and "Resident Evil 5."  As such, you will find no references to any storylines or potential retcons present in the current era of RE.  </p><p>You will, however, find some similarities between certain elements in this story and some RE titles released after 2009, namely "Resident Evil 6," "Resident Evil: Damnation," and "Resident Evil: Vendetta."  These similarities are coincidental, and I have done my best to rework them and tone them down without compromising their role in this story.  </p><p>In short, my goal with this story was to encompass all of the things that I love about the classic and post-classic eras of "Resident Evil" while writing something that reflected what I wanted (and still want) to see in future titles.  I hope I have achieved that goal or at least written a good story worthy of a couple of characters I adore.  Hopefully, you think so.</p><p>This story is dedicated to my friends who helped me accept who and what I am.  From the bottom of my heart...thank you.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>"Memory is the scribe of the soul." -Aristotle</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>"Knowing yourself is the beginning of all wisdom." -Aristotle</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>"This above all: to thine own self be true." -William Shakespeare</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>DREAM STATE</b>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <b>Chapter 0</b>
</p>
<p>
  <em> make one wrong move and i’ll shoot </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> relax beautiful i said i was sorry<br/></em>
  <em>my name’s</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>i’m<br/></em>
  <em>redfield</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>nice<br/></em>
  <em>i’ll remember that</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 1</b>
</p>
<p><em> "Have yourself a merry little Christmas<br/></em> <em>Let your heart be light<br/></em> <em>From now on, our troubles will be out of sight..."</em></p>
<p>Hey.  I remember this song.  Not from the twenty-thousand Christmas songs Trish and I heard during our layover at LAX, either.  Probably I heard it on TV. But the version I remember is sung by a woman with a soft voice, not Frank Sinatra.  </p>
<p>It's weird how her voice tingles in the back of my mind, kind of like this guy's name does.  It’s been nagging at me since we left the island -- nagging like an itch I can’t find, let alone scratch.  It tells me I know this guy, this Christopher Redfield, from somewhere, and that’s why I had that dream about him.</p>
<p>Although <em> where </em> I’d know him from, I’m sure I don’t know.  He’s your regular military man, I guess. Tall stature.  Stern face. Wide shoulders. Brown hair growing out from a buzzcut.  Biceps like footballs straining the arms of the brown bomber jacket he’s wearing.  Back erect even as he sips his coffee. Human. He's kind of famous, as all the online articles about him indicate, so maybe I heard his name on the news and that's why I dreamed about him last night.  </p>
<p>Regardless, it's weird to see someone you've only dreamed about in-person.  It's like your dream came true.</p>
<p>He sets down his coffee and takes a drag off his cigarette.  The sour-smelling smoke wafts above his head like a thought bubble.  He looks out the window, I guess at the snow falling against the red sky or the skyscrapers that spike it.  Maybe he's looking at the people who walk by the diner in ones or twos or threes or the cars that drive by, their tires spinning fresh snow.  Or maybe he's looking at the lit storefronts or the bus stop shelter across the street.</p>
<p>Of course, <em> all </em> of this feels like a dream.  Like I stepped into a movie. Like I'm <em> human</em>.</p>
<p>Just like on TV, the diner is full of people.  All kinds of people. Young, old, skinny, fat, male, female, all different skin tones.  Some converse with other people at their table and talk. Some, like Redfield, sit by themselves, reading or eating or playing on their cell phones.  Couples hold hands. One couple walks to the empty space beside the jukebox, which glows as many different colors as the Christmas lights strung overhead, and starts swaying.  Mid-dance, they deepen their embrace and kiss, just like in the Christmas movie I watched on our way from LAX to JFK. The only thing missing is a New York City landmark like the Statue of Liberty in the background.</p>
<p>The waitress passes Redfield's booth and stops at mine.  Her eyes linger on my left eye for just a second as she sets my own coffee in front of me.  I nod my thanks. She turns, walks a few steps, and stops in front of Redfield. She asks if he needs anything.  He says he’s good, and she leaves.</p>
<p>Leaning close to the window, I check my left eye.  The contact is getting uncomfortable, but it’s still in place.  None of the paint around my eye has flaked off. I still look like just another burn victim.</p>
<p>And now the coffee.</p>
<p>I've never had coffee before -- I'm not allowed to have anything that doesn't have protein and iron -- but I've always wanted to try it.  Its rich smell fills the lab just about every morning as the researchers roll in.</p>
<p>My phone buzzes.  I press my thumb against the screen to unlock it.  </p>
<p>I got a message from Trish:</p>
<p>
  <em> DON'T YOU DARE.  NOT AFTER LAX. </em>
</p>
<p>She’s sitting at a table a couple over from my booth, still wearing her gray coat and beret tucked over her chin-length black hair.  In front of her is a book she’s pretending to read here but was really reading at LAX and during our second flight to avoid looking at and listening to Christmas stuff.  She glares at me, lips pursed, her fingers tapping the table. She's still angry with me for sneaking off at LAX to try pizza and buy clothes that don't make me look like one of those Bible-pushers in the movies.</p>
<p>Grinning, I take a gulp then spit out the bitter stuff.  Trish smirks and types on her phone.</p>
<p>
  <em>Serves you right.</em>
</p>
<p>Redfield picks two sugar packets from his booth's condiments basket and pours the sugar into his coffee, giving it a thorough stir before he lifts it to his lips.  I do the same, making sure Trish can see the sugar packet.</p>
<p>Choking down the coffee, I smile at Trish.  Shaking her head, she pushes her glasses up her small nose and grabs her phone.</p>
<p><em>Enjoy it while you can </em>, she messages me.</p>
<p>
  <em>Give me a break.  We've been sitting here ALL EVENING.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>That's your fault.  You're the one who wanted to tail him instead of just waiting for him to come home.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>HCF said to gather as much info about your subject as possible.  File review and Internet research can only tell me so much. I have to know his routine.  It could provide me with information that'll help me kill him and prove the program is a success.  Maybe when the investors see the program's potential, Dick</em>
</p>
<p>Oh, right.  Trish said to be careful what I send through this thing.  Someone at Gaea might read it. So no harping on Dick, using our nicknames, or anything like that.  I delete Dick's name and type:</p>
<p>
  <em>you know who will acknowledge I can do this.  </em>
</p>
<p>She shoots me a big smile full of encouragement and teeth.  <em> I'm pulling for you. </em></p>
<p>I smile back and choke down another sip of coffee.  It's nice to see her smile. She doesn’t do it often -- because of stress from work, she says.  I believe her. The only person at Gaea whom I've ever seen smile -- well, smile <em> genuinely </em> -- was Dr. Cabot. </p>
<p>And Dick too recently, now that I think about it.  Only his smile is more smug than anything. He's probably just happy that since Dr. Cabot's gone, he's been appointed Program Manager.  I bet he's even happy about the sell-out accusations. That prick. I'm going to rock the first demonstration I have with the board. I'm going to impress everyone, especially the CEO Conrad Steele and executive officer Leila Coates, so much that it'll wipe that smug smile off his face.</p>
<p>The sky blackens.  The streetlights flick on.  The skyscrapers’ windows light up like a thousand square eyes.  The storefronts darken, their Christmas displays dead. Just like on TV, the people and cars all but disappear.  The snow covers their footprints and the tire tracks, as though they were never there.</p>
<p>I’d never seen snow until this morning when we landed.  Well, except sometimes in my dreams, where each flake pricks my skin like an ice needle.</p>
<p>Oddly enough, it feels like that in real life, too.</p>
<p>A cell phone buzzes.  Not mine -- his.</p>
<p>He taps a button and holds the phone to his ear.  “Hey. Where are you?”</p>
<p>A female voice crackles in response.</p>
<p>Redfield puffs another cloud of smoke.  “It’s no problem. Truth be told, it’s nice to get out of the apartment after a week of doing nothing.  Jill decided to work, and everywhere’s packed with last-minute shoppers.”</p>
<p>The voice says something.</p>
<p>He laughs. “Okay.  Okay, sounds good. I’ll keep an eye out for your bus.  See you in a half-hour or so.”</p>
<p>He ends the call with a sigh and another suck on his cigarette.</p>
<p>I write to Trish, <em> He’s waiting for someone.  A woman. </em></p>
<p>
  <em>Girlfriend?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Don’t think so.  Didn’t sound lovey-dovey enough.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Might be his sister.  The one who lives outside of Philadelphia.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Fuck, I hope not.  We’ll be waiting here a week or better to get him alone.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Yeah.  A week is too long for you know who, not to mention the board and the investors.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I know.</em>
</p>
<p>I know, and I wish I didn’t.  It puts even more pressure on me to do this right.</p>
<p>Almost twenty minutes pass.  Then, a Greyhound bus screeches to a stop by the shelter. Redfield stamps his cigarette in the ceramic ashtray and tosses a couple bills on the table.  He goes outside and makes his way around the bus.</p>
<p>Trish said we need to be careful where and how we use Gaea's credit cards, so I dig out the change from my ATM withdrawal in LAX.  I lay a five under the coffee cup and go stand under the neighboring building's canopy. Yanking my sweatshirt hood up, I make like I’m checking my phone only to find a message from Trish.</p>
<p>
  <em>What are you doing?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Making sure you’ve got good things to include in your nightly report.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>He and whoever’s with him might notice you.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>It isn’t THAT empty.  Besides, his apartment is only three blocks from here.  They’re almost definitely going to walk. And while they walk, they’re going to talk, right?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I’m just here to observe and report.  Helping of any kind is strictly off-limits.</em>
</p>
<p>The bus rumbles away, revealing clumps of people with suitcases and bags.  Some grab their stuff and leave. A few hang by the shelter to hail the occasional taxi.  Redfield and his new company are two of the ones who leave.</p>
<p>The figure next to him is indeed a woman. She’s about a head shorter than he is.  Athletic build. A large duffle bag slung over one shoulder. Wearing brown boots and a red snow coat with her reddish brown hair pulled back in a ponytail.  From here, it’s hard to make out her face, but it looks like she has the same long nose as Redfield.</p>
<p>
  <em>They’re heading toward his apartment.</em>
</p>
<p>Stuffing my hands in my leather jacket pockets, I head left.  </p>
<p>“Thanks again for waiting all evening for me.  That’s the last time I wait until the last minute to try to book a flight,” the woman’s saying.</p>
<p>Redfield laughs.  “You forget that I also work for the government.  I know what a pain in the ass it can be to get time off, especially around Christmas.”</p>
<p>“So how’s Jill doing?  Is she any better?”</p>
<p>“I’m not sure if ‘better''s the right word.  There’s no getting better from the things Wesker made her do while she was under the Uroboros parasite's control.  But it seems like she’s getting along okay. She likes her new apartment. I'll show you where it is sometime this week.  She says she opted to work over Christmas because it helps take her mind off things. Last I talked to her, she and a team are investigating a lead we got on a deal involving Las Plagas, the parasite that Wesker used to make Uroboros.”</p>
<p>“That’s good.  One step at a time.  That’s how you have to take it.”</p>
<p>“I just hope she isn't pushing herself too much.  By the way, against my better judgment, I ordered the tickets for the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island.”</p>
<p>“Really?” the woman gasps. “When are we going?”</p>
<p>“Tomorrow.  Then you’ll see just what a tourist trap they are.”</p>
<p>“At least we’ll stay warm!”</p>
<p>“You know, baby sister, I’ve never understood your optimism.”</p>
<p>“And I’ve never understood your pessimism, big brother.”</p>
<p>“Yin and yang, I guess.”</p>
<p>She slides her arm through his and hugs him.  “Thanks for the tickets, Chris."</p>
<p>“You’re welcome, Claire.”</p>
<p><em> I’m Claire.  <br/></em> <em>Claire Redfield.</em></p>
<p>Was<em> that </em> the name in my dream last night?</p>
<p>I type,<em> It’s his sister.  Claire Redfield. Was her name in our file? </em></p>
<p>
  <em>I’d have to check.  I just remember it said he had a sister who lived near Philadelphia.  </em>
</p>
<p>“All of this snow is beautiful, even if it does make traveling inconvenient,” Claire says.</p>
<p>“Don’t get used to it.  The city’ll have all of these sidewalks swept and salted by tomorrow morning.”</p>
<p>“Right now, though, it reminds me of home.  All of the snowball fights we had. All of the snowmen we built.”</p>
<p>“You mean the snowmen <em> I </em>built and you knocked down.”</p>
<p>“Someone sounds bitter.”</p>
<p>“I’m not bitter.  The reigning champ of snowball fights can’t feel bitter about a few destroyed snowmen.”</p>
<p>“Excuse me?  ‘Champ?’ You have to actually hit your opponent to consider yourself a champ.  I, on the other hand, never had a problem creaming you.”</p>
<p>“That sounds like a challenge."</p>
<p>Claire stops.  “All right, 'champ.'  Name the time and place."</p>
<p>He keeps walking.  “Tomorrow afternoon, the roof of my apartment building. That's assuming the neighbors’ kids don’t get up there first.  And that you aren't afraid to lose."</p>
<p>Bending down, she grabs a fistful of snow.  She throws the snowball and pelts Redfield in the head.  He whirls around.</p>
<p>She places her hands on her hips.  “Who’s reigning champ now?”</p>
<p>Squatting, he gathers a big wad of snow.  “Those are fighting words, baby sister.”</p>
<p>“Then let’s see how well you fight, big brother.”</p>
<p>He draws back one fist and lets loose a snowball.  She sidesteps it, laughing. With his other hand, he releases a second ball, smacking her in the chest.</p>
<p>“Hey, that’s a foul!”</p>
<p>“All’s fair in love and snowball fights, baby sister.”</p>
<p>They start slinging snowballs at each other.  Redfield blocks with his arm while Claire blocks with her bag.  Their laughter fills the night like the snowflakes that are still falling full-force.  The few people out walking watch. One couple jogs around the Redfields to avoid the snowballs.</p>
<p>“Kind of an odd time and place for a snowball fight, huh?” says one guy as we pass each other.</p>
<p>I shrug.  “Gotta live it up, I guess.”</p>
<p>“True indeed.”</p>
<p>As Redfield gets ready to pelt her again, Claire throws up one hand.  “Okay, okay, okay, stop! My jeans are completely soaked and there's still a block to your apartment."</p>
<p>Redfield tosses the snowball in the air and catches it.  “So the champ still reigns.”</p>
<p>“For <em> now </em>.  We’ll see about that whenever we rematch on the roof.  Now put down the snowball.”</p>
<p>Redfield shrugs.  “Okay.”</p>
<p>He throws it at Claire, but she blocks it with her bag.</p>
<p>“You jerk!”</p>
<p>“I may be a jerk, but I’m also still champ.”  He finger-guns her with a click of his tongue.</p>
<p>“Whatever.  Let’s just get somewhere warm and dry.”</p>
<p>“Hey, you’re the one who threw down the first snowball.  You don’t challenge the champ and expect to stay warm and dry.”</p>
<p>“Excuse you, you’re not the champ.”</p>
<p>“Yes, I am.”</p>
<p>“No, you’re not.”</p>
<p>“<em>Yes </em> . I <em> am </em>.”</p>
<p>“<em>No </em> . You’re <em> not </em>…”</p>
<p>When they reach Redfield’s apartment building, he pulls a keycard out of his wallet.  I slide the hotel's keycard out of my side pocket. The company credit card slides with it.  I stop under the streetlight in front of my and Trish’s hotel to see which card is which. The credit card goes back into my pocket.  </p>
<p>“Chris.  Wait a minute.”</p>
<p>Claire is looking right at me.</p>
<p>And so is her brother.</p>
<p>“What is it?” he says.</p>
<p>Like me, she’s standing under a streetlight.  Even from here, I can see the lines and contours of her face perfectly.  Heart-shaped face. Sculpted jaw. Pointed chin. All like her brother’s.</p>
<p>But those <em> eyes </em> .  They're blue, like Redfield’s, but somehow... <em> illuminated </em>.  Not because of the streetlight, either.</p>
<p>Because they're beautiful.</p>
<p>Two hands yank me toward the hotel.</p>
<p>“I <em> thought </em> that was you, Bill!” says Trish.  “Thank God. For a second there, I thought Mike and Aly had given me the wrong directions.  Let’s go upstairs so we can start trivia!”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Chapter 2</strong>
</p>
<p>Trish doesn’t say anything until we’re in our room with the door shut.</p>
<p>“What the <em>hell </em>were you thinking?”</p>
<p>I slide off my hood.  “Oh come on, Trish, it was an accident.”</p>
<p>“You were staring right at her.  And she was staring right back.  <em>Both</em> of them.  Your target <em>and</em> a potential witness.  They’re aware of you now.”</p>
<p>Sitting on the edge of the bed, I unlace my boots.</p>
<p>“Are you listening to me, Snake?” she snaps.</p>
<p>“Yes, I’m listening.”</p>
<p>“You’d better be.  Because this is huge.  Targets cannot become aware of you.  It defeats the whole purpose of creating an intelligent BOW.  The biggest complaint we get about our BOWs is they can’t be controlled.  They stand out --”</p>
<p>“I <em>know</em>.  You, Dr. Cabot, and HCF have told me only about a million times.” I kick off my boots and shrug out of my jacket.  “Look, I get it: I screwed up.  You’re not going to tell Dick, are you?”</p>
<p>“Well, I kind of have to, don't I?  Since that's what I'm here for.”</p>
<p>I throw the jacket behind me.  Next goes my hoodie, which lands on top of the jacket.</p>
<p>“Fine.  Whatever.” I stretch out on the bed.</p>
<p>Trish sits beside me.  “Dick isn’t someone to screw with, Snake.  He’s never liked you, not since the moment you woke up.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, because he’s a <em>dick</em>, hence why I call him his real name behind his back.  Even now that Dr. Cabot is disgraced and gone and he's the new Program Manager, he still can’t get over himself.  I guess the rumor about his wife and Dr. Cabot cut him real deep.  What I’d give to punch him in his big, stupid nose just once --”</p>
<p>“It doesn’t matter.  What matters is, Dick hated Dr. Cabot and still hates him.  And you’re Dr. Cabot's creation, so by extension, he hates you.  Now that Dr. Cabot isn’t around to keep him in line, he might use any excuse to get at you.  And I don’t want to see you...to see you punished.”</p>
<p>“Aw.  I’m touched, Trish.  I had no idea you cared.”</p>
<p>“Of course I care.  You’re too...valuable.  To the company.”</p>
<p>I snort.  “That’s romantic.  I’m starting to see why you don’t have a boyfriend.”</p>
<p>She smacks me in the arm.</p>
<p>“Ow.  That really hurt me, a BOW.”</p>
<p>“A BOW who doesn't have superhuman strength.”</p>
<p>“I do regenerate, though, which is the most strategic advantage I could have besides intelligence.”</p>
<p>She rolls her brown eyes.  “I’ve got work to do.  Why don’t you take a shower first, then I’ll take one, and then we order room service?  We can do your report over dinner.”</p>
<p>“Sounds good.”  I sit up.  “Pizza okay?”</p>
<p>“Snake.”</p>
<p>“What?  It was really good.  Just how I imagined it.  All salty and greasy and cheesy -- ”</p>
<p>“Protein and iron only, Snake.  No more empty carbs.  It’s bad enough I let you have pizza and coffee in the same day.”</p>
<p>“Come on, Trish.  It’s my first time out and about.  And in America, the land of junk food.”</p>
<p>“You do know that Coeus Island is an American property, right?”</p>
<p>“Just because an American company owns it doesn’t mean it’s American.  Besides, it doesn’t have a McDonald’s or a Pizza Hut.  Oh, that reminds me: there’s a McDonald’s around the corner.  Can I try that tomorrow?”</p>
<p>“You are persistent.  Maybe a couple of fries -- <em>maybe</em>, if you do a good job.  Now go get your shower.”</p>
<p>My bag’s on the table by the window.  Before I grab it, I glance at Redfield's apartment across the street.  Like most of the other apartment windows, his is aglow with red, orange, yellow, green, and blue lights wrapping the Christmas tree.  It looks just like a shot from a movie.  </p>
<p>Claire stands by the green couch in the living room.  Her bag rests upon the coffee table.  Redfield appears with a folded blanket and pillow.  She takes them and sets them on the couch.  Then they disappear into the kitchen.</p>
<p>Redfield and his sister, Claire.</p>
<p>Claire Redfield.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>First things first: a thorough facial washdown.</p>
<p>Most of the paint comes off in inky flakes that swirl down the drain.  The little bit that sticks to my skin I scrape off with my thumbnail.</p>
<p>Next, I pluck the contact out of my left eye.  I toss the contact in its case and squirt in some solution.</p>
<p>Now I don’t see a burn victim in the mirror.  I see a regular guy.  Razor-cut, chin-length red hair, pasty skin, wearing a dark gray, long-sleeved shirt.  Totally normal until you get to his eyes.  One’s a regular-looking green eye like any human would have.  The other one’s yellow with a long black slit for a pupil.  Green scales surround this eye, making me look half-Hunter.</p>
<p>I take off my shirt.  More patches of green scales cover my arms and shoulders, my back, chest, and stomach.  There are so many patches of green scales that it’s easy to miss the scars: long white lines that run across my chest and stomach in the shape of a Y.  Short white lines that fill the flesh around the Y.  Lines that turn light green when they cross a patch of scales.</p>
<p>They're surgical scars, from before I woke up.</p>
<p>Ragged crescent marks, which flush pink with heat, wrap my forearm, shoulder, and side.  Scars from a couple BOWs -- two Hunters -- that I fought during training before I gunned them down.  Wounds so deep I nearly bled out.  So large they took half a day to heal and are now carved in me forever.</p>
<p>Thankfully I don't have any scars from testing.</p>
<p>A starry knot of white lines bursts in the center of my chest.  Here, they cut, grafted, and stitched together my skin to cover my heart.</p>
<p>The shower water takes a few seconds to heat up.  When it’s the temperature I want, I hit the button on the faucet.  Scalding hot water rains down on me.</p>
<p>New York City is the exact opposite of Coeus Island.  Coeus is in the South Pacific.  It's always humid and balmy except during evening rains.  Then after the rains, it’s muddy in addition to humid and balmy.  At least, according to Trish.  This morning was the first time I'd ever been outside, and it had still been dark and cool then.</p>
<p>It’s interesting, being out in the human world.  Leaving the island.  Flying.  Seeing the stars, the mainland, the cities, the snow.  Touching the snow.  Eating junk.  Looking at Christmas decorations.  Being surrounded by millions of people who don’t know who or what I am.  Including Claire.</p>
<p>Why did I just stand there, staring at her like an idiot?</p>
<p>Why did she stare back?</p>
<p>I twist the faucet valve until the water stops falling.  I dry off enough to put on a pair of sweats and t-shirt.</p>
<p>I’m still mopping the water out of my hair when I step out of the bathroom, my bag in one hand.  Trish has thrown her beret, coat, and ID card on the table and set her boots under it.  Now she’s sitting on the edge of one bed in her sweater and slacks, one leg dangling, working on her laptop.</p>
<p>“Your turn, madam.”</p>
<p>She shuts the laptop.  “<em>Finally. </em> Now I can feel like a human again instead of a giant popsicle.”</p>
<p>As she passes me, I tell her, “Careful.  Water’s hot.”</p>
<p>“Good.”</p>
<p>I put the bag back on the table and grab the room service menu.  Sandwiches.  Salads.  Soup.  Steak.  But no pizza.</p>
<p>Just as well.  Trish will make me eat a steak anyway.  She’ll probably get a salad or some kind of soup.  That's what she always brings back from the cafeteria on the other side of the island.  Like every human woman (or so she tells me), she’s convinced she’ll gain twenty pounds overnight if she eats anything that has more than ten calories in it.</p>
<p>Is Claire like that?</p>
<p>She's sitting on the couch, watching TV in long-sleeved pajamas.  She has her feet propped on the edge of the coffee table.  She’s wearing red and green Christmas socks.  Redfield exits the kitchen carrying a large pepperoni pizza.  She moves her feet, and he sets the pizza on the table.  They both grab a slice and piledrive it in their mouths.  Claire grabs another slice right away and eats it two bites at a time.</p>
<p>That answers my question.</p>
<p>I sit in the chair and squeeze the wooden arms.  I trace the smooth, polished surface not at all like the plastic chairs in the lab or the padded chairs on the planes or the plush chairs at LAX.  The flat screen TV sets upon a dresser made from similar polished wood.  The two beds are larger and more comfortable than the bed in my cell.</p>
<p>Bed.  Dresser.  TV.  Ceiling.  Carpeted floor.  So like my cell, except here the door and front wall are mercifully not made of glass.</p>
<p>My cell is only like this room because Trish convinced Dr. Cabot to make it more like a room. Before I got my cell, I was sleeping in a cell in the BOW containment room.  I didn't even get my cell phone until this morning.</p>
<p>Snow is still falling.  A glob of cheese dribbles off Redfield's current slice onto his plate.  Laughing, Claire pops it into her mouth.</p>
<p>Where do I know you from, Claire Redfield?</p>
<p>Trish left her laptop on her bed.  The water is still rushing through the pipes, so she’ll probably be at least a few more minutes.  I should wait until she’s out, but I want to know <em>now</em>.</p>
<p>So I open the laptop.</p>
<p>The screen flashes on.  A pop-up asks me for a password.  Thankfully, Trish never removed the log-in info that the IT department pasted beside the mousepad.   I click the system database.</p>
<p>“Claire Redfield” gets no hits in the local database.  “Christopher Redfield” gets one hit, our profile of Redfield that Trish and I looked over together.  A photo of him appears at the top of the screen along with a list of stats: his height, weight, birthday, careers in the Air Force, Raccoon City PD, STARS, and BSAA, all that good stuff.  The profile body mentions his tangles with Umbrella and Tricell back when they were around.  No mention of Claire other than that he has a sister who lives near Philadelphia, like Trish said.</p>
<p>Under his stats summary is a link that says, “Umbrella file.”  I click on it.  The photo of Redfield that pops up is old, from about ten or fifteen years ago.  His face is thinner, and he doesn’t look as stern.  The info on this file mostly matches the info on our file, but it only goes up to 2003, the year Umbrella tanked.  No mention of Claire.</p>
<p>I refilter the searches to all files instead of just local ones.  This time, “Claire Redfield” gets three hits.  One’s a news article from last year.  Another is a news article from this year. The other’s an Umbrella file.</p>
<p>Like Redfield’s Umbrella file, Claire’s file has an old picture of her.  Even though she’s younger, she looks more like her brother does now.  Stern.  No, not stern.  Rebellious.  Eyes just as beautiful then as they are now.</p>
<p>Her birthday is March 21, 1979, making her 30.  She’s younger than her brother by almost six years.  She works at TerraSave, the tree-hugger version of the BSAA.  She was in Raccoon City but got out just before the U.S. nuked it.  She was also detained at some place called Rockfort Island -- one of Umbrella’s old properties in the South Pacific, according to the profile.  That puts Rockfort in the same vicinity as Coeus.</p>
<p>The first news article is about Harvardville, the outbreak in the airport just last year.  She was in that, too.  Not only did she get out, she helped arrest the guy who caused it.</p>
<p>The second news article is about the Raccoon City memorial that opened over the summer.  Apparently she, her brother, and a bunch of other people attended the grand opening.  Maybe that’s why her name struck me and made me think I’d heard it in my dream last night. </p>
<p>“What are you doing?”</p>
<p>Trish is standing outside the bathroom.  She’s wearing flannel pajamas and holding her bag.  Her hair hangs in damp locks.</p>
<p>“Trying to access HBO On Demand,” I say.</p>
<p>She drops her bag on the table beside mine.  I click “home” on the database’s dashboard and then minimize the screen.</p>
<p>“I already told you, Snake: my laptop is for work <em>only</em>.  If you need to use it, you have to ask me first.”</p>
<p>“I <em>am</em> working.  He and his sister are watching TV and eating pizza. Like we should be doing.”</p>
<p>She sighs. “We can watch a movie tonight -- as long as it’s not a Christmas movie -- <em>but</em> you have to let me interview you for my report now, and you have to give me serious answers.  <em>And </em>you have to stop complaining about pizza. Deal?”</p>
<p>“You’re just jealous because I’m ripped and you’re fat.”</p>
<p>“<em>Excuse me?</em>”</p>
<p>“Ha!  Just kidding.  Deal.”</p>
<p>Snorting, she says, “You know, you really are an ass sometimes.”</p>
<p>“But I’m a fun ass.”</p>
<p>Rolling her eyes, she picks up the hotel phone and orders a steak for me and onion soup for herself.  Just like I predicted.</p>
<p>When the food arrives, we put our stuff on the bed nearest the window.  We drag the table and chair to the same bed. Stuffing her ID card inside her jacket pocket, Trish sets her soup and laptop on the table and slides into the chair.  I set my steak beside her laptop and sit cross-legged on the bed.</p>
<p>“We’re going to begin the interview now,” she reads.  “What measures did you take to prepare for your objective?”</p>
<p>I stab the steak and saw off a corner. “Well, there was all of my training, courtesy of the HCF.  You and I -- <em>Dr. King</em> and I reviewed the target’s file together.  Then Dick -- I mean, <em>Dr. Mitchell</em> gave me an untraceable credit card.  I got online, found the target’s apartment building, and discovered that it is across the street from a hotel.  So, I booked a room there for me and Dr. King for three nights -- after making sure she was okay with rooming with me, of course.  The room’s across from the target’s apartment and up one floor, making it easy to keep tabs on him.  Then I booked the plane tickets from LA to New York.</p>
<p>“I brought plenty of contact solution, a couple of contact lens cases, and facial paint to hide my uniqueness, so to speak. I also brought an eyepatch for emergencies.  Additionally, I acquired suitable street clothing during the layover at LAX using the company's untraceable credit card.”  I pop the piece in my mouth.</p>
<p>Trish types everything as I say it.  Then she reads, “What steps have you taken to complete your objective?”</p>
<p>I swallow and saw off another piece.  “As soon as we arrived in the city, Dr. King and I took a taxi to our hotel.  Thanks to our vantage point, I noticed that the target was on his way out the door.  So, in the interest of learning more about him and his schedule, I decided to tail him.  Thanks to the tail, I found out more about his plans for the coming days.”</p>
<p>“Have you formulated or are you in the process of formulating a plan for completing your mission in a manner that can’t be traced to us or our client?”</p>
<p>“More in the process.  But this morning on the plane, I was thinking about the target’s career in the military and the widespread problem of mental illness associated with military members -- PTSD and such.  I figure since this guy’s ex-Air Force, he’ll have some weapons in his apartment, and I can use one to take him out and make it look like a suicide.”</p>
<p>Trish finishes typing and then looks at me.  “Have you encountered any unforeseen complications?”</p>
<p>The knife catches my finger. <em>“Shit!”</em></p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“Cut myself.”</p>
<p>I hold up my hand for her to see.  Bright red blood gushes from the cut.</p>
<p>“Ow,” says Trish.</p>
<p>I lick it clean.  “What was the question?”</p>
<p>“Have you encountered any unforeseen complications?”</p>
<p>“Yeah.  One.  The target has a relative who’s visiting him for the holidays.  While I was following them back to his apartment, she sort of spotted me.  Then he spotted me.  However, I don’t anticipate any problems going forward.  I wasn’t doing anything suspicious.  I had my hood up.  It was dark, and I was across the street from them.”</p>
<p>Trish turns her attention to the computer screen.  “How long do you anticipate it will take you to complete your objective?”</p>
<p>“The relative’s arrival complicates things. But like I said, I don’t anticipate any problems going forward.  I anticipate two days at most.”</p>
<p>When Trish finishes typing, she clicks the mousepad a couple of times and says, “There.  Sent.  How's your finger?”</p>
<p>“Sealed finally.  Shouldn't take more than an hour or two to heal.”  I look at the cut.  “Definitely not the worst pain I've ever felt, but it still hurt.”</p>
<p>“Well, now the night is ours to watch any non-Christmas movie you want.”</p>
<p>“In that case, I choose <em>Debbie Does Dallas</em>.”</p>
<p>“Okay, I'm going to have the tech guys put a parental block on your HBO subscription --”</p>
<p>Her phone buzzes.  She picks it up and checks the screen.</p>
<p><em>"It’s Dick." </em> She presses a button and holds the phone to her ear.  “Dr. Mitchell?  He--<em>it's</em> right here.  Okay, just a second.”</p>
<p>She lowers the phone so it’s between us and then presses another button.</p>
<p>“Can you hear me, Dr. Mitchell?”</p>
<p>“Yes.  Thank you.  V-001?”</p>
<p>“I’m here,” I say.</p>
<p>“Good.  I just glanced over Dr. King’s report.  I’m sorry to say I found it a tad lacking in detail.”</p>
<p>“V-001 answered every question,” says Trish.  “I can confirm all of his--<em>its</em> answers myself.”</p>
<p>“That’s wonderful news.  Please tell me how the target and this relative of his managed to spot it from across a dark New York street.”</p>
<p>Trish looks at me helplessly.</p>
<p>I respond, “It was an accident.  I thought their backs were turned.  I was standing under a light to look at something.  When I looked up, Claire -- the relative was looking at me.  The target saw that she was looking, so he looked too.”</p>
<p>“That’s strange.  It almost sounds like you were doing something to attract their attention.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t do shit --”</p>
<p>Trish shakes her head.  “Dr. Mitchell, I saw what happened with my own two eyes.  V-001 did nothing.  It was just standing there.”</p>
<p>“Well then, maybe you can tell me why they were looking at it if it did nothing.”</p>
<p>“I assume it was because it was facing them, and she turned and saw --”</p>
<p>“Why was it facing them?”</p>
<p>“I told you: I was trying to see something -- the cards I was holding," I say.  "I wanted to make sure I had the hotel card --”</p>
<p>“Oh, I see.  So, you risked our clients’ confidentiality <em>and</em> a full investigation by every human rights organization on the face of the earth so that you could make sure you had the hotel card.  I expect much better from an intelligent BOW.  If you can’t even do what we created you for, then you are of no use to us.  Do you understand?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir."</p>
<p>"And you, Patricia -- you <em>assured</em> me V-001 was ready.  Though a test mission this may be, you are V-001's handler and thus are still responsible for overseeing its training and preparation.  If you can't ensure it at least completes its objective and does so discreetly, you are also of no use to us."</p>
<p>"Yes, sir," she says.</p>
<p>“I expect a much better report tomorrow.  And I expect this test objective to be completed punctually.”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir."</p>
<p>“Good.  See that it is.”</p>
<p>The call ends.  </p>
<p>I stab my steak.  “That was fun.  Like sticking yourself with an electric prod.”</p>
<p>Trish is bent over her soup, stirring the broth.  Her hair curtains her eyes. </p>
<p>I nudge her elbow with mine.  “Hey, don't let what that asshat says get to you.  You're tougher than that.”</p>
<p>“It's nothing.”</p>
<p>“It’s not nothing.  Tell me what’s wrong.”</p>
<p>She just shakes her head.  “So what movie did you want to watch?”</p>
<p>“Trish.”</p>
<p>“I’m fine.  Really.  So, what movie?”</p>
<p>Her eyes are dry, but they look dead somehow.  I put down the fork and knife and slide over to my boots.  </p>
<p>“Forget the movie.  Put your coat on," I say.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“We’re going up to the roof.”</p>
<p>“Snake, no, you heard Dick --”</p>
<p>“Fuck Dick.  He isn’t here.”</p>
<p>Once my boots are on, I lace them up.</p>
<p>“Dick gave you instructions.  He gave us <em>both</em> instructions.  You can’t expose yourself any more than necessary.  Besides, it’s snowing.  We’re in our pajamas, and our hair’s wet.  And you need rest, or else the jet lag is gonna kick you in the ass tomorrow.”</p>
<p>I zip up my sweatshirt and shrug into my jacket.  Digging the eyepatch out of my jacket pocket, I snap it over my Hunter eye.  “So if we see anyone or we get cold, we’ll come back.”</p>
<p>“Snake. <em> Please</em>.”</p>
<p>“Hey, how often are you in New York City at Christmastime?  I mean, I've only known you for nine months, and I admit I don't know anything about having a regular human life, but I'm going to guess it's not often. ”</p>
<p>She looks at the floor.</p>
<p>“Come on, Trish.  Live a little.”</p>
<p>She looks up at me, then stands.  “Okay.  But if anyone even<em> breathes</em> in our direction, we’re back in this room ASAP.  Got it?”</p>
<p>“All right!  I knew there was a rebel in you somewhere!”</p>
<p>She smiles at that.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>After Trish puts on her boots, coat, and scarf, she peeks out the door.  When it’s clear, we hit the stairs and run up five flights of steps.  The stairs open into a small, glass room.  A Christmas tree, strung with gold and burgundy bows, stands beside the door.  The tree’s plastic needles feel like bag ties.  Same goes for the tree downstairs and the ones at JFK and LAX. </p>
<p>Trish peers through the glass door and then opens it.  Sliding off the eyepatch, I follow her onto a snow-covered cobblestone path.  It winds river-like to a dwarf tree, bare except for the white Christmas lights that loop its branches, and a snow-dusted bench beside it.  More white lights wind the wrought iron guardrail that encloses the roof.</p>
<p>Trish wanders to the bench, snow snagging her hair, and dusts the wooden seat clean.  Sitting, she stares into the lit branches, a smile spread across her face.</p>
<p>“For someone who hates Christmas, you sure look happy,” I say.</p>
<p>"It isn't the warm beaches of Hawaii, but the lights are at least nice.”</p>
<p>“Then you'll like this.  Come on,” I say, standing.</p>
<p>She follows me to the guardrail.  Before us, the city gleams like Christmas lights: red, orange, yellow, green, and blue, big and bright against the black sky.</p>
<p>Gripping the cold iron, I say,  “You know, for a while there, I thought Hollywood was just fucking with me.  But the world really is so much bigger than testing and training and killing Hunters and Lickers.”</p>
<p>She groans.  “It’s a shame the world isn’t big enough for us not to have to hear <em>more</em> of this crap."</p>
<p>Faint strings and a crooning voice float up from the street.  It's the Frank Sinatra song from the diner.  The one that a woman sings in my memory.</p>
<p>“What is this song?” I ask.</p>
<p>“It's one of the most irritating, overplayed musical compositions in the history of the world.”</p>
<p>“But what's its name?”</p>
<p>Trish cocks an eyebrow.  “You're not going to use it to annoy me, are you?”</p>
<p>“No.  I just heard it somewhere before today.”</p>
<p>“It's 'Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas.’”</p>
<p><em>“Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas.”</em>  Yes.  I remember now.  I can hear the woman's words clearly, as though my brain recorded them.</p>
<p>With her, I softly sing: <em>“Have yourself a merry little Christmas.  Make the Yuletide gay --”</em></p>
<p>Trish elbows me.  “Hey, you said you weren't going to annoy me with --”</p>
<p><em>“From now on, our troubles will be miles away.  Here we are as in olden days, happy golden days of yore.  Faithful friends who are dear to us gather near to us once more.</em>”</p>
<p>“I didn't know you could sing.”</p>
<p>“If you listen to the beat and you know the words, you can pick up the melody pretty quickly.”</p>
<p>“I thought you couldn't remember it.”</p>
<p>“I know it from somewhere, but the version I know is sung by a woman.  I can't remember who.”</p>
<p>“A lot of people sing that song.  Too many, honestly.”</p>
<p>We laugh together.  Then Trish's smile falls.  She keeps her eyes, glittering in the lights, trained on the nightscape.</p>
<p>“Hey, what’s wrong?” I ask.</p>
<p>“Nothing.  I just...I just wish I could freeze this moment.  That I could stay here with you,” she says.</p>
<p>“I know how you feel.  After seeing all this, it's going to be hard to go back to the island.  At least there's the top sub-level.  I really do want to see how it looks when there’s sunlight filtering through the ocean.  I bet it looks almost as cool as this.  And you need to show me that beach you used to go to, the one that’s on the other side of the island.”</p>
<p>Turning from the city, she makes her way to the bench.</p>
<p>“Trish?  Hey, Trish?  Talk to me.”</p>
<p>Sitting, she stares at the path.  I sit beside her.</p>
<p>“It's not important.  Not as important as you impressing the board and investors at your first demonstration.  You've trained so hard, been through so much --”  </p>
<p>“So have you.  And anyway, I wouldn't have done so well if you hadn't been there to support me, especially when I first woke up.  And when Dr. Cabot had me start testing, then training --" </p>
<p>“That's just it. I went into research medicine because I wanted to make a difference.  And, well, because I wanted to be someone.  It isn't easy being just another orphan that someone abandoned.  But the job...it isn’t what I thought it’d be.”</p>
<p>“What do you mean?”</p>
<p>“It's just...some of the stuff we do…the things I've done...what we put you through...I don’t understand how it benefits anyone.  But I <em>have</em> to do it.”</p>
<p>“You don’t <em>have</em> to.  You can quit.”</p>
<p>“No, I can’t.”</p>
<p>“Yes, you can.  People quit Gaea all the time. It's like clockwork.  Everyone leaves and is replaced.  I'm counting the minutes until Dick finally leaves.”</p>
<p>“I know we haven't had much chance to talk about it, considering how sudden it was and all, but...do you believe the accusations about Dr. Cabot?” she asks.</p>
<p>“I don't know.  He didn’t seem like the sell-out type.  He was always happy to talk to me during our weekly sessions and find out how I was progressing.  He thought I was funny.  I wish I could've spent more time with him.  He was like...well, how I imagine it would be to have a father, especially with the balding head and tall forehead and glasses.  What about you?  Do you think he sold Gaea out?”</p>
<p>She shrugs.  “I was just one of dozens of people he managed.  I probably talked with him less than you did.  But I agree: he seemed more results-driven than money-driven.  Then again, a lot of times people aren't who they appear to be."</p>
<p>“Well, whatever happened, I'm sure he's okay.  Maybe even enjoying the warm beaches of Hawaii as we speak.  Like you can do any time you want after you leave.”</p>
<p>She cracks a real smile. “Hawaii <em>is</em> nice this time of year.  But if I left, you'd have no one to charm with your jokes.”</p>
<p>“Not true.  That Johnson kid looks like he'd appreciate a joke or two.”</p>
<p>“Peter?  I’m pretty sure he’s afraid of you.”</p>
<p>“He’ll get over it.  Especially if Dick promotes him to be my new handler.  It took you only like a week to adjust to me."</p>
<p>"In all fairness, though, you didn't talk <em>nearly</em> as much as you do now."</p>
<p>"In all fairness, you didn't either."</p>
<p>"Again, in all fairness, you're too much fun to be around."</p>
<p>"Well, I try to keep things interesting."</p>
<p>"That you do."</p>
<p>“Speaking of interesting…” I grab a fistful of snow from the ground.  “What do you say we have ourselves a little snowball fight?”</p>
<p>“Oh, no.  I am already outside in the freezing cold with wet hair.”</p>
<p>“You sound scared of losing.”</p>
<p>“For your information, I was always one of the last kids standing during snowball fights.  In fact, I was usually <em>the</em> last.”</p>
<p>"Yeah?"</p>
<p>"Yeah."</p>
<p>I stand up.  "All right then.  Let's see what you've got, 'champ.'"</p>
<p>I cream her in the chest.  She shoots to her feet.</p>
<p>"I can't believe you did that!"</p>
<p>"Believe it," I say, grabbing more snow.</p>
<p>A snowball smacks me in the head.  Trish is standing under the tree, another snowball in her hand, grinning.</p>
<p>"Believe <em>that</em>," she says.</p>
<p>“Pretty good.  But the question is, are you good enough to beat a trained assassin?”</p>
<p>“You’ve never killed anyone.”</p>
<p>“Not yet.  I’ve killed plenty of Hunters and Lickers, though.  And there was that one HCF guy -- I accidentally broke his arm while we were sparring --”</p>
<p>She throws the snowball.  It catches me in the shoulder.</p>
<p>“Less talk, more throwing -- unless you want to lose,” she says.</p>
<p>“Give me a second.  This stuff’s harder to pack than it looks.”</p>
<p>“It’s not the size that matters.  It’s whether or not it hits the person.”</p>
<p>“Don’t you worry.  This bad boy’s going to knock you off your feet.”</p>
<p>A snowball hits me.  Trish grabs more snow from the tree's branches.  “You are <em>really </em>slow.”</p>
<p>I throw the big ball at her.  She ducks behind the tree.  The ball sails past her.  She throws another snowball, but I jump out of the way.  I run around the tree and catch her.  We topple to the ground.  Laughing, we roll on our backs.</p>
<p>“You’re pretty good at that," I say.</p>
<p>“When you live in a house with thirty other kids, you learn how to move it or you get pelted.  If you get pelted, you spend the rest of recess wet and shivering.”  She slides her arms and legs back and forth.</p>
<p>“What are you doing?” I ask.</p>
<p>“Making a snow angel.  The sisters loved when we made them.  Your arms make the wings and your legs make the end of the robe.  Here, help me up and I’ll show you.”</p>
<p>I push myself onto my feet and give her a hand.  When she’s standing, she points at her impression in the snow.</p>
<p>“See?”</p>
<p>“Looks more like a bug to me.”</p>
<p>“Well, you try, then.”</p>
<p>The snow by the guardrail remains untouched.  It overlooks Redfield's apartment building.  Most of the apartment windows in the building are dark now, including his. </p>
<p>In a few days, will his Christmas lights glow at all?  Or will Claire be too grief-stricken to turn them on?</p>
<p>Trish joins me.  “What is it?”</p>
<p>“I wonder what it’s like to kill someone.  To kill a human, I mean.  HCF said if you can kill a Hunter or a Licker, you can kill a human, but…"</p>
<p>“Try not to think about it,” she says.  “It’ll just make you sick.  And try not to...not to let it change you.”</p>
<p>I dig out the eyepatch and snap it over my eye.  “Come on.  Let’s get some sleep.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 3</b>
</p>
<p>
  <em>chris redfield<br/></em>
  <em>is chris redfield a relative of yours or something</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>yeah he’s my brother</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>there’s no way he'll come all the way out here just to save you</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>you don't know him like i do</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>don’t rely on other people<br/></em>
  <em>you might think you know them but they'll disappoint you in the end</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 4</b>
</p>
<p>The room is dark.  Trish sleeps in the other bed, facing the wall.</p>
<p>I grab my phone off the nightstand.  It says, “5:46.”</p>
<p>Another night.  Another dream about Redfield and his sister, Claire.  Claire Redfield. I hope I don’t dream about my targets and their relatives on future missions.  It’s confusing. And it wakes me up early, even when I've got massive jet lag.</p>
<p>I draw myself out of bed.  The snow stopped. All of the windows in Redfield’s apartment building are still dark.  Below, the sidewalks and street are clean. Cars drive by. People walk past -- people who can come and go as they please.  </p>
<p>Yawning, I sit on my bed.  I check the cut on my finger.  The skin is smooth and unmarked, as though nothing had ever grazed it.  Digging my earbuds out of my bag, I hook them to my phone. I open the Internet browser and Google "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas."  Something about that woman's voice, no matter how distant in my memory, calms my nerves. But none of the singers who pop up are her.</p>
<p>I Google “Claire Redfield.”  The first page is filled with hit after hit about Claire and TerraSave.  “Raccoon City survivor Claire Redfield leads TerraSave investigation against black market bio-warfare dealer Frederic Downing.”  “Raccoon biohazard survivor Claire Redfield and TerraSave testify before Congress concerning bio-weapon testing in Nevada.” “Biohazard survivor Claire Redfield and other TerraSave officials negotiate resources trade with Jorako president for information about bio-weapons.”</p>
<p>Biohazard survivor Claire Redfield engages in snowball fights when she isn’t saving the world.</p>
<p>There are even interviews with her on Youtube.  One of them is called “Raccoon City survivors attend opening of Raccoon City memorial and research center.” I click on it.</p>
<p>The reporter talks over clips of Claire and a bunch of other people standing in front of a big glass building.  One’s a blond guy with a girly haircut. Another is an older guy with a beard. There’s two short-haired women, one with blond hair and the other with brown hair, a Latino guy, a Latina woman with two braids, and a pale woman with long, blond hair tied in a ponytail.  Then there’s Redfield himself.</p>
<p>The reporter’s saying, “Of its more than 100,000 citizens, only a select few made it out prior to the nuclear blast that destroyed the infected menace and reduced the city to burning ruins.  Today, they return to the site to find not a desert of ash, but a green space thriving with vegetation and wildlife. And at the heart of this green space, a research center dedicated to finding cures and giving hope.”</p>
<p>The shot cuts to a gray-haired woman in a suit.  Claire, Redfield, and the others stand behind the woman.</p>
<p>“With the help of numerous wildlife and forestry experts, engineers, and of course the fortunate few survivors, we have constructed a network of walking paths that follows all of the city’s known roads,” she says into a mic.  “Along these paths are a great number of knowledge centers containing photos of and information about sites of interest, including the point where the nuclear bomb made contact.</p>
<p>“Starting today, the general public can walk the same streets as the citizens of Raccoon City and learn more about the incident as well as the virus that caused it, the T-Virus.  Additionally, we will also be opening the doors of our research center -- the biggest of its kind -- so that you can see the measures we are taking to prevent another devastation like Raccoon City.”</p>
<p>All of the survivors and audience members clap.</p>
<p>“And now, I invite one of the survivors, Claire Redfield, to say a few words.</p>
<p>Another burst of clapping.  Smiling, Claire takes the mic.</p>
<p>“Thanks, Miranda.  And thank you to the news stations that flew out here and all of you who are tuned in.</p>
<p>“Eleven years ago, I was a college student who didn’t know where she was going in life.  I was majoring in English, even though I didn’t like to read or write that much. I liked motorcycles.  And I loved my big brother, Chris, who’s standing here with us today.</p>
<p>“Two days before the bomb dropped, I knew something was wrong.  I hadn’t heard from Chris for a week. To many of you, it might seem normal that a working adult not call his little sister at college every day.  But it wasn’t normal -- not for Chris.</p>
<p>“After our parents died, Chris became my legal guardian.  He made sure that we kept our parents’ house. He saw to it that I had food, shelter, and clothes, even while he was still in the Air Force.  He ensured that I could go to college. Chris did everything for me, and I would do anything for him.</p>
<p>“So after a week of him not answering my calls or returning my voicemails, I went to Raccoon City to find him.  What I found instead was a nightmare.</p>
<p>“I didn’t know it at the time, but Chris had already survived a nightmare.  He had left to find the people who had caused it. Those same people were the ones who caused the nightmare that destroyed Raccoon City.</p>
<p>“I got lucky.  Chris got lucky.  All of us, in one way or another, got lucky, because we had each other.  If we hadn’t, we wouldn’t be standing here today. Instead, we would be one of the millions of people who have died or suffered a fate worse than death since bio-organic weapons rose to prominence in the late ‘90s.</p>
<p>“Bio-organic warfare is a disease in every sense of the word.  It infects, takes over, and destroys lives. Many people, including myself, have lost friends, family, and loved ones to this disease.</p>
<p>“Nowadays, we shoot, incinerate, and blow up anything infected with this disease.  In best-case scenarios, we can vaccinate prior to infection. But as with any other disease, the best way to fight it is to cure it -- to eradicate it from the face of the earth. </p>
<p>“The Raccoon City Memorial and Research Center is the first facility in the world dedicated not only to providing information about modern bioterrorism but also finding a cure for it.  Had a cure existed for any of the numerous viruses introduced unethically into the world over the past fifteen years, there might be thousands, maybe tens of thousands, maybe even a hundred-thousand survivors instead of just the nine who stand before you.</p>
<p>“Today, I revisit Raccoon City for the first time in eleven years.  But I don’t see darkness, death, or destruction. Today, on this beautiful day, I see light.  I see life. And I see hope for a future free of bioterrorism. Thank you.”</p>
<p>Applause explodes from the audience and the other survivors.</p>
<p>Claire says, “And now, I’m going to turn the mic over to my brother.”</p>
<p>More applause.  Redfield takes the mic while Claire stands with the other survivors.</p>
<p>“Thank you.  And thank you, Claire,” he says.  “For someone who doesn’t like to write, she sure knows how to give a speech.”</p>
<p>Chuckles ripple through the audience.</p>
<p>“I don’t have my sister’s gift for words, so I’ll get straight to the point.  Eleven years ago, this forest was my home. When it was destroyed, I lost my apartment.  I lost everything in it, including things that belonged to my parents. I lost the job that had given my life direction.</p>
<p>“But more importantly, I lost friends and co-workers.  People I passed on the street on the way to work every morning.  People whose names I never knew. I lost everything I knew and thought I knew.</p>
<p>“Eleven years later, the company responsible is gone.  The man who got me and my friends involved in all of this finally died earlier this year.  And yet the world is no safer than it was eleven years ago.</p>
<p>“I’ve spent my life filling the same kind of role.  An airman in the Air Force. A cop and then a special forces member at the Raccoon City Police Department. And now I serve as a leader in the BSAA.  After all I've witnessed, I admit that it's sometimes hard for me to see any good, much less hope, where so much bad has happened. But I'll tell you what I do see: </p>
<p>"A brand-new, fully-staffed center dedicated to making sure what happened here 11 years ago is never forgotten and never happens again.  The policy makers who fought with us to turn this place into a reality. The news crews from all over the world who came here to cover this story so all of you at home can see it.  My fellow survivors. </p>
<p>“Inside all of us exists the capacity to do good.  The fact that so many people stand here today or else are watching from home shows me that the amount of good in the world far outweighs the bad.  And that gives me hope.</p>
<p>"Today, we find a cure.  Tomorrow, we end bioterrorism for good.”</p>
<p>Everyone bursts into applause again.</p>
<p>Redfield adds, “And I’ll be out of a job again.”</p>
<p>Laughter peppers the applause.</p>
<p>The woman with short blond hair takes the mic. I skip through the video until I get to a shot of both Redfields walking down a paved path with the reporter.</p>
<p>Redfield points to a tree just off the path.  “That’s where my old apartment building stood.  Just around the corner was a little diner called Emmy’s.  They made the best buttermilk pancakes. Whenever Claire came to town, that’s where I’d take her for breakfast.”</p>
<p>“That’s where I stopped when I first got into the city,” says Claire.  “You ate there so often that I figured one of the waitresses or cooks could give me a clue as to what happened to you.”</p>
<p>“Was that when you found out that Chris had left the city?” the reporter asks.</p>
<p>“No.  That was when I found out about the infection.  I didn’t find out that Chris had left until I got to the police station.  I found his journal that he’d left on his desk.”</p>
<p>“How would you two feel about revisiting the place where the RPD building stood?”</p>
<p>Claire and Redfield look at each other.</p>
<p>“Let’s go,” says Redfield.  Claire nods.</p>
<p>The video cuts to Redfield, Claire, and the reporter walking on the path.</p>
<p>“Chris, you weren’t in Raccoon City when it became overrun with infected and bio-organic weapons.  But you were in an incident that occurred just over there in the Arklay Mountains a few months before.  An incident that also involved the T-Virus. That’s the incident that inspired you and some of your co-workers to leave Raccoon City to pursue the organization responsible for both the incident you were in and the city's later fall, correct?”</p>
<p>“Umbrella.  Yeah."</p>
<p>"Claire, how long did it take you two to find each other?”</p>
<p>“Three months.  Just before Christmas that year," says Claire.  "I heard he might be in Paris, investigating Umbrella’s European headquarters.  So that's where I went. I got myself captured and sent to an island they owned in the South Pacific.”</p>
<p>“Rockfort Island,” says the reporter.  “The island that you mentioned in your interview with <em> Science Magazine </em>.  The island that had its own T-Virus outbreak.”</p>
<p>“That’s right.  I managed to get off the island, but I ended up landing at another base that Umbrella owned in the Antarctic, where there was another outbreak.  That one involved the T-Virus and another virus made from it, the T-Veronica Virus. That's when Chris miraculously flew in and saved the day."</p>
<p>"I had received word that Claire had been taken by Umbrella.  I tracked her to the Antarctic base and got her out before the place blew," says Redfield.</p>
<p>“Wow.  Chris, you were 25 at the time.  And Claire, you were only 19, correct?”</p>
<p>“That’s right.”</p>
<p>“Surviving three different outbreaks by the age of 19...that’s very impressive.  Especially considering you were alone during the second two.”</p>
<p>“Actually, I wasn’t alone.  I met another survivor. Together, we got off the island and made it to the second base.”</p>
<p>“I’m going to guess they didn’t...survive the second base.”</p>
<p>Shaking her head, Claire looks at the distant mountains. “No.  No, he didn’t. He was infected with the T-Veronica virus. It forces its victims to mutate -- allows them to be controlled by someone who can control it.  He died saving my life.”</p>
<p>Redfield puts a hand on her shoulder.</p>
<p>The reporter says, “If I may, what was his name?”</p>
<p>Claire takes a deep breath, then says, “His name was Steve.”</p>
<p>
  <em> My name’s Steve. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I’m Claire. Claire Redfield. </em>
</p>
<p>Claire stops walking.  “Chris, look. There it is.”</p>
<p>The camera twists sideways and zooms in on the ruins of an old brick building.  All of the walls and foundation are gone except for a crumbling brick archway. In front of the building stands a little glass building -- a knowledge center, I guess.</p>
<p>The camera follows Claire, Redfield, and the reporter as they finish walking the block or so to the building.  When they’re standing in front of it, the camera swings to the archway. Three grimy stone letters hang above the missing double doors: RPD.</p>
<p>“Claire, Chris: what’s going through your minds right now?”</p>
<p>Redfield says, “Memories of another life.”</p>
<p>“Claire?” </p>
<p>The camera zooms in on her face.  Her eyes linger on the letters until she blinks.  Then they move to the field beyond the archway, to the trees and mountains beyond the field.</p>
<p>She replies, “Memories of death.  But also, an opportunity for new life --”</p>
<p>“Why are you watching videos of his sister?”</p>
<p>Trish is standing behind me.</p>
<p>I pause the video on a shot of Redfield and Claire.  “It's an interview with her <em> and </em> him at the opening of the Raccoon City research center and memorial.”</p>
<p>Taking the chair, Trish picks up the room service menu.  “And have you learned anything useful?”</p>
<p>“They’re willing to brave certain death to save each other.  Which is stupid but...I don't know. Sweet, I guess. And typical for humans, according to HBO."</p>
<p>"Psht.  The last thing people care about is each other."</p>
<p>"Sounds like you have some personal experience with caring about someone.  Who was it, pray tell?"</p>
<p>"I'm going to order the spinach omelette," she says, getting up to grab the room phone.  "Tell me what you want, and it had better not be pizza."</p>
<p>"Fine.  I want a Big Mac and large fries, and you're dodging the question."</p>
<p>"You cannot have a Big Mac or large fries, and you know it."</p>
<p>“Last night, you said you’d consider letting me have a few fries if I did a good job.”</p>
<p>“A few fries isn’t the same as a Big Mac and large fries.”</p>
<p>"Fine.  I'll quietly have sausage with a side of eggs <em> if </em> you answer the question."</p>
<p>"Fine<em>.  </em><em>No one </em>."</p>
<p>"'No one?'  No friends or boyfriends or college professors?  Not the sisters or the kids at the orphanage?  Not even the <em> pizza delivery guy </em>?"</p>
<p>"What can I say?  It's part of being an orphan.  You get dumped at an orphanage, you spend the next eighteen years not being wanted by anyone, and then you get dumped on the street -- unless you get lucky with a good job or you bust your ass and get into some kind of school, like I did."</p>
<p>"Jesus, Trish.  I'm sorry."</p>
<p>"It's not your fault, so don't be sorry.  Just drop it."</p>
<p>She calls room service and puts in our order.  I look at Redfield’s dark windows again. Claire was lucky she had her brother.  Hell, they were lucky they even had parents.</p>
<p>And by the end of the week, I'm going to take her brother away from her.</p>
<p>Redfield’s apartment windows light up.  Claire is sitting on the couch in a t-shirt and sweatpants, a blanket crumpled around her feet.  She throws her head back in a yawn. Her unbanded hair hangs in messy curtains.  Rubbing both eyes, she walks into the kitchen.  Redfield appears in the hall, wearing pretty much the same thing as his sister. He goes into the kitchen too. </p>
<p>When the food arrives, Trish is the one who answers the door.  Like last night, we put our bags on my bed. Trish grabs her laptop and types as she digs in.  I Google “Claire Redfield Steve" and get a bunch of hits about Claire and company leads, politicians, and diplomats -- Steves who are alive.</p>
<p>Redfield sits on the couch and watches TV as Claire disappears into the hallway.  Shutting her laptop, Trish grabs her bag and goes into the bathroom.   </p>
<p>Trish once told me that human women take forever getting ready.  Human men get frustrated waiting on them. I hope she's right.  </p>
<p>Grabbing the laptop, I boot it up.  I input the password.  A message pops up saying the password is wrong.  I try “password,” “Password,” and “password1.” No go.</p>
<p>Claire reappears dressed in jeans and the same red snow jacket from yesterday.  Redfield has already donned his brown jacket and pants. After they slip on their shoes and gloves, he grabs a paper off the printer, and then they’re out the door.  When they exit the building, they hang a left and disappear around the block.</p>
<p>The bathroom door opens.  Trish stands in the doorway, dressed in slacks and a button-up, her hair neatly brushed.</p>
<p>“Why are you on my laptop again?” she asks.</p>
<p>I shrug.  “Just trying to review Redfield’s file.  That's all.”</p>
<p>She slides the laptop away from me and shuts it.  “I told you: you need to ask me before you just grab it and start using it.  Which is why, as you probably noticed, I changed the password.”</p>
<p>“Well, pardon me for trying to do a good job." I nod at Redfield’s apartment. “Last night, he told her he'd bought them tickets for the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island today.  They left just now with a piece of paper. Since they're going to be gone for at least part of the morning, I’m going to give his apartment a once-over. See where he keeps his weapons.  And start formulating my plan for killing him.”</p>
<p>“Have you formulated one for getting into his apartment?”</p>
<p>“The window on the fire escape.”</p>
<p>“What are you going to do if someone sees you?”</p>
<p>“Say that I accidentally locked myself out of my apartment.”</p>
<p>Trish crosses her arms.  “Okay. This is your mission.  You do what you need to do to succeed.  But no more sightings. Got it?”</p>
<p>“I will give you nothing but good things to tell Dick tonight.  Promise.”</p>
<p>Grabbing my bag, I head to the bathroom.  I come out when I’m fully dressed and have the contact in my eye and paint applied to my face.  I toss the bag on my bed and lace up my boots.</p>
<p>“I’ll shoot you a text when I’m in and when I’m done.  Okay?” I say.</p>
<p>Trish doesn’t answer until I’m at the door with my hand on the knob.</p>
<p>“Snake?”</p>
<p>I turn to her.</p>
<p>“Please promise me you’ll be careful," she says.</p>
<p>I give her a smile.  “This is one BOW you don’t have to worry about.”</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>The morning sun has risen.  It hangs between two skyscrapers like it’s trying to hide.  The streets are getting fuller, but not so full that anyone will notice a guy hanging out in a still-dark alley.</p>
<p>I lean against the neighboring building and make like I’m playing on my phone.  The escape's bottom platform is about seven feet above me. The ladder, which is locked to a vertical track, hangs about three feet lower than the platform.  Thankfully, there’s a closed dumpster under the platform.</p>
<p>Redfield’s apartment is on the sixth floor, about halfway up the fire escape.  When I reach his floor, I peek through one window. Inside is his living room. His Christmas tree.  His big TV. His computer. His coffee table and couch. Claire's bag is shoved under the coffee table.</p>
<p>The next window leads to the prize: his bedroom.  His bed sits beside the window, the foot pointed toward the dresser.  Framed photos rest on top.</p>
<p>Must be nice to have a real bedroom.</p>
<p>The window lock is an old pivot -- easier to open with a credit card than other kinds of locks, or so the HCF guys told me.  The window is sealed tight, but not so tight I can’t crack it and slide the company card through.  </p>
<p>Only problem is the bolt.  No matter how hard I shove the card into it, it won’t move.  I try the other window. I push the card against the lock so hard that the card corner snaps off.  The lock pops open.  I pocket the two card pieces, then slide the window open.</p>
<p>Once my feet hit the floor, I send Trish a message.</p>
<p>
  <em> I’m in. </em>
</p>
<p>A mixture of cigarettes and sharp sweetness hangs in the apartment.  I follow the sweetness to the Christmas tree.  It’s pine. <em>  Real </em> pine.  I squeeze a few needles.  They feel spongy and soft, like living skin.</p>
<p>Inhaling the pine scent, I go to the kitchen.  Butcher knives, cooking utensils, rags, and scissors are tucked away in drawers.  There’s no gun hidden in the cookie jar, no ammo clip stashed on the top shelf.  </p>
<p>The same goes for the cabinets in the living room.  The underside of the couch cushions. Under the couch itself.  Claire's bag.  The computer desk drawers. The blankets and storage boxes in the hall closet.  The medicine cabinet and vanity sink in the bathroom.</p>
<p>The bedroom closet space.</p>
<p>The nightstand.</p>
<p>Under the pillows.</p>
<p>Under the mattress.</p>
<p>Under the bed.</p>
<p>Even the fucking dresser drawers.</p>
<p>I lift one picture frame.  There’s nothing behind it. The photo shows kid Redfield and baby Claire with a dark-haired man and red-haired woman.  Their parents. </p>
<p>The next photo shows teenage Redfield in a graduation cap and gown with Mom, Pop, and pre-teen Claire.  The next one shows him in an Air Force uniform. The photo after that shows him with a bunch of people in fatigues posing in front of a helicopter.  Two of them were in the Raccoon center opening: the older, bearded guy and the pale woman with the ponytail. Here, she has short, brown hair.</p>
<p>The next photo shows Redfield and the same woman in BSAA uniforms at some sort of ceremony.  Next is a photo of him with his arm around the woman. The one after that shows him bare-chested and Claire in a halter top, both wearing sunglasses.</p>
<p>The last photo is just of Claire.  She looks young, about the same age as she is in the Umbrella file photo.  She’s wearing a black jacket, a red top, and black leather pants. She’s leaning against a motorcycle, coolly gazing at the camera, her eyes gorgeous as ever.</p>
<p>A lifetime of photos.  And the only thing behind any of them is 62 cents that Redfield probably forgot was there.</p>
<p>My phone buzzes.</p>
<p>
  <em> You’ve been in there for an hour.  Almost done? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> No.  This guy has NOTHING.  He’s a member of the BSAA, and he doesn’t have so much as a fucking squirt gun. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> What are you going to do? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Keep looking.  If nothing else, a knife to the heart will work.  It doesn’t have to look like a suicide. Besides, using a gun is risky with the sister here.  She could be up and moving while the neighbors are still wondering about the noise. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> What if he struggles? </em>
</p>
<p>I press the lock on the doorknob, then jiggle the outer knob.</p>
<p><em> Not a problem. </em> </p>
<p>The only place I haven't checked is the Christmas tree.  Redfield doesn't seem creative enough to hide a gun in a Christmas present, but checking ensures I perform a thorough sweep.</p>
<p>The first gift is about the size of a shoebox.  The tag says, “To Claire, From Chris." The gift’s too light to be a gun or knife.  The next present is smaller.  Its tag says, “To Chris, From Jill.” Something rattles inside.  Not ammunition, though.  Ammunition weighs more.</p>
<p>The last gift is in a red bag.  A <em> heavy </em> red bag.  I scoot it into the sunlight and pull out the tissue paper.  </p>
<p>Inside is a photo album.</p>
<p>All of the photos are of Redfield, Claire, and their parents.  Foily borders and cut-out shapes decorate the photos.  Some of the bigger cut-outs have hand-written blurbs on them.  One blurb adorns a photo of them at the beach when they were about ten and four. They’re making kissy faces at the camera.  The crab-shaped blurb says, “Aren’t we so cool?”</p>
<p>Another adorns a professional photo of teenage Claire and some blond guy with his hand on her waist.  She’s wearing a burgundy dress, and he’s in a tux. The blurb says, “Remember Todd, my first boyfriend?  You told him if he broke my heart, you’d break more than just his heart!”</p>
<p>The last page has a recent photo of them -- taken at the Raccoon City memorial opening, judging by their outfits.  A handwritten letter is pasted under the photo:</p>
<p>
  <em> Chris, </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I finally finished going through all of Mom and Dad’s photos.  I thought you’d like a copy of these happy memories so you can look at them and remember the good times when you need to! </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Merry X-Mas 2009, big brother! </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Love always,<br/></em>
  <em>Claire</em>
</p>
<p>I go back to the front and flip through the album page by page.  Photos of vacations.  Photos of little kid games like tag and hide and seek.  Photos of holidays.  Photos of birthday parties. Photos of graduations.  Photos of school dances and first dates and friends.  All happy memories.  All good times.  Just like Claire said.</p>
<p>I don’t think there are any photos of me anywhere.  Well, except for a company file that I’m sure exists.  A file with facial and body profile shots, x-rays, surgical documentation photos, that kind of thing.  No "happy memories" or "good times." </p>
<p>I tried taking a photo of me and Trish this morning, when we got to LAX.  I wanted us to be my phone's wallpaper.  But she said no, that it was a bad idea in case I lost the phone or someone, especially Dick, saw it.</p>
<p>It makes sense.  Besides, only humans can live lives with happy memories and good times.</p>
<p>In one of the Christmas photos, Claire and Redfield lie under the tree.  A common thing for human kids to do, according to Hollywood.</p>
<p>A cord dangles under the tree.  The cord to the Christmas lights.</p>
<p>I plug it in.</p>
<p>The tree lights flash on.   Pushing the gifts aside, I lie under the tree.  The pine scent hangs as heavy as the salty odor of blood after a training session with the Lickers and Hunters -- so heavy I taste the sweetness on my tongue.  The different colored lights kiss the dark branches, making the needles glow.  </p>
<p>My phone buzzes again.</p>
<p>
  <em> Why did the lights turn on? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I must've hit something.  Give me a minute. </em>
</p>
<p>Setting the phone on my chest, I look at the lights.  I inhale and rub my tongue against my palette and swallow.  The pine scent lingers in my mouth.</p>
<p>Then, rolling on my side, I jerk the plug out of the wall.  I sit up and push the gifts back where they were. I rewrap the album and stuff it back in the red bag along with the tissue paper.  </p>
<p>Trish sends me another message.</p>
<p>
  <em> Are you almost done? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Yeah.  There's nothing here. </em>
</p>
<p>Sighing, I push myself onto my feet and lock the living room window.  The receipt for Redfield and Claire's tickets lies in the printer tray.  I force the bedroom window lock until it swings free. Sliding it down, I twist the lock so it touches the strikeplate. </p>
<p>Trish says this is strictly a mission and not a vacation.  I was hoping I'd see the Statue of Liberty when we were descending or on the taxi ride to our hotel, but we didn't even go near it.  I really want to see it, even if it's only for a few minutes.  According to the GPS on my phone, the Statue's only a 15-minute drive from here.</p>
<p>And anyway, I've already been seen by thousands of people on my way here.  What could a few more hurt?</p>
<p><em> It’s almost lunch, </em> I write. <em> Have I earned my reward? </em></p>
<p>
  <em> All right, fine.  It might take me a while considering it's noon and I need to stop by the hotel ATM.  Come back and do not do not DO NOT go anywhere besides our room. </em>
</p>
<p>I wait a few minutes, then check the hotel entrance.  About thirty seconds pass before Trish exits and heads left.  I climb down the fire escape, grab $50 from the ATM, then flag down a taxi.  Slipping into the backseat, I tell the driver, “The Statue of Liberty.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 5</b>
</p>
<p>The cab pulls along the curb.  From here, the Statue of Liberty is smaller than my thumb.  But it’s there. It’s really there.</p>
<p>Giving the driver a $20, I get out of the cab.  I’m in a small park full of people.  All kinds of people, just like in the diner.  Tall people, short people, skinny people, fat people, men, women, kids.  All bundled up.  All smiling.  Some laughing.  The kids playing in the snow, building snowmen.  Having snowball fights.  Making snow angels.  No mission to complete, no purpose to fulfill.</p>
<p>Christmas music dances from the ticket station, where the line for the ferry starts.  The line winds along a guardrail overlooking the bay.  I go to a part of the guardrail far away from the line.  A chorus starts <em> ooh</em>ing.  I know this song.  Slow-tempoed Frank Sinatra, but not “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas.”  This is “I’ll Be Home For Christmas.”  I know this one because of all of the movies it plays in.  If I listen closely now, I can hear the woman with the soft voice sing it, too. Quietly, I sing with her and Frank:</p>
<p>
  <em> “I'll be home for Christmas<br/></em>
  <em>You can plan on me<br/></em>
  <em>Please have snow and mistletoe<br/></em>
  <em>And presents on the tree</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Christmas Eve will find me<br/></em>
  <em>Where the love light gleams<br/></em>
  <em>I'll be home for Christmas<br/></em>
  <em>If only in my dreams...”</em>
</p>
<p>I breathe in the salty smell of the sea.  It smells like the ocean breeze on the island, but here, there are ferries, garbage boats, and people -- lots of people, just being people.  Enjoying the moment. Living.</p>
<p>It’s peaceful.  And...<em> nice </em>.</p>
<p>
  <em> “Christmas Eve will find me<br/></em>
  <em>Where the love light gleams</em><br/>
  <em>I'll be home for Christmas<br/></em>
  <em>If only in my dreams...”</em>
</p>
<p>“Excuse me.”</p>
<p>I turn around.  Claire Redfield is standing behind me, looking right at me.</p>
<p>The heat drains from my face.</p>
<p>“Are you okay?” she asks.</p>
<p>I clear my throat and choke out, “Fine.  I’m fine. Thanks.”</p>
<p>Laughing, she smiles. “Good.”</p>
<p>The heat rushes back into my face.  It feels like it’s about to burst into flames.</p>
<p>“Anyway, sorry to bother you, but that was you I saw last night, right?” she asks.</p>
<p>“Um.  Maybe.  I think so.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry for staring at you.  You probably thought I was crazy or something.  It’s just that you look like someone I know -- <em> knew </em> a long time ago.  I thought you might be him.”</p>
<p>I make myself shrug and smile back.  “Sorry.”</p>
<p>“That’s no problem.  I don’t suppose you have any relatives in Vermont, do you?”</p>
<p>“Vermont?”</p>
<p>“That’s where he’s from.  <em> Was </em> from.”</p>
<p>I shake my head.  “No. Not that I know of.”</p>
<p>“Ah.  Okay.”  She looks at my left eye.  “If I may ask, how did it happen?”</p>
<p>“How did…?  Oh, you mean my eye?”</p>
<p>“Yeah.  Actually, you know what?  Don’t answer that.  It was rude of me to ask.  I’ll just get going and leave you alone --”</p>
<p>“No, it’s okay.  It’s something I was, uh, born with.  Always had it, as far as I can remember --”</p>
<p>“<em>Claire! </em>”</p>
<p>Redfield is standing near the street, looking at us both.  He waves her over.</p>
<p>To me, she says,  “My brother’s waiting for me.  Since your friends are staying at the hotel across from his apartment building, maybe we’ll run into each other again.  But if we don’t, have a merry Christmas.” </p>
<p>She runs to meet her brother.  Together, they cross the street and disappear into a crowd.</p>
<p>Someone smacks me in the shoulder. Trish is standing next to me, clutching a McDonald's bag, glaring at me.</p>
<p>“Trish --”</p>
<p>“Save it for when we’re back at the hotel.  And hope,<em> hope </em> that Dick doesn’t kill us both for what you just did.”</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>We don’t say anything during the taxi ride.  Trish won’t even look at me. She just sits with her arms and legs crossed, facing the window.  The taxi driver glances from me to her and shakes his head.</p>
<p>As soon as Trish shuts our room door, she slams down the bag and rounds on me.  “What in the <em> hell </em>were you thinking?”</p>
<p>I shrug.  “I just wanted to see the Statue of Liberty.  I didn’t want to leave New York and <em> not </em> see it.  I used cash, and I swear I was just about to leave --”</p>
<p>“Stop.  Just stop right there.  You said you were going to come straight here.  Instead, you jeopardized your mission, <em> again</em>.  Just so you could see <em> her</em>.”</p>
<p>“What?  Oh, you mean Claire?  No, I told you --”</p>
<p>“Stop lying to me, Snake.”</p>
<p>“I’m not lying --”</p>
<p>“Bull<em>shit</em>.  I saw your search history in the database.  At first, I didn’t think anything of it. Probably just a little extra research, like you said.  But then, just as I left the restaurant with your god-damn lunch that you’re not supposed to have, I saw you ride by.  And I <em> knew </em> you’d run off to see <em> her</em>.  While she was with your <em> target</em>.  And they saw you, again.  And not only that, you <em> talked to her</em>.”</p>
<p>“She came up to me, Trish --”</p>
<p>“I don’t <em> care </em> who came up to who!  The point is you were talking to her and they both saw you!”</p>
<p>“What is the big fucking deal?  He’s going to be dead soon, and she won’t have any clue it was me.”</p>
<p>“‘The big fucking deal’ is that is what Dick told you to do --”</p>
<p>“Oh, fuck Dick--”</p>
<p>“<em>Can the ‘fuck Dick’ attitude! </em>  Dr. Cabot was the one who kept convincing the board and investors to continue investing time and money in you, and he’s <em> gone</em>!  Now the only person who can convince them to keep pouring resources into you is Dick.  And he <em> hates </em> you, Snake.  He has the power to declare you defective, and he will be looking for any excuse to do it.  And I don’t want to see you get hurt.”</p>
<p>Tears well up in her eyes and spring free.  She sinks onto her bed, takes off her glasses, and buries her face in one hand.</p>
<p>“Hey.  <em> Hey</em>.”  Sitting beside her, I take her hand.  “Dick is not going to hurt me.  I’m too valuable to the company, remember?”</p>
<p>She pulls her hand out of mine and wipes away the tears. “You’re only valuable if you can do what we created you for, Snake: using your intellect to kill efficiently.  To obey.  If you can’t do that, then it’s back to formula with a new subject.  We’ll euthanize you and throw you into the incinerator, just like the Hunters and Lickers you kill, if we don’t keep your body to study.”</p>
<p>A chill shoots up my spine, fast and paralyzing like an electric shock.</p>
<p>“I’ll do it tonight,” I say. “I’ll kill him.  And then we’re out of here tomorrow.”</p>
<p>Sniffling, she puts on her glasses.  Her eyes are red and puffy. “You’d better.  For both our sakes.”</p>
<p>“I will.  I promise.” </p>
<p>I give her my most reassuring smile.  But inside, all I feel is sick. It’s so strong it cramps my stomach and makes my heart race.  It’s <em> painful</em>.</p>
<p>Is this the pain Claire will feel when she finds her brother dead?  The pain she felt when her friend Steve died?</p>
<p>“I need you to do something for me, Trish,” I say.</p>
<p>“Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell Dick about this.”</p>
<p>“Besides that.  You remember yesterday morning when I told you I had a dream about her brother and I thought I knew him from somewhere because of it?”</p>
<p>She nods.</p>
<p>“I don’t think it was about him.  I think it was about her.”</p>
<p>“Snake, that doesn’t make any sense.  You didn’t even know her name until last night.”</p>
<p>“I know it doesn’t make any sense, but I had another one about her.  I know her from somewhere, Trish.  I just can’t remember where.  That’s why I was in the database.  But I couldn’t find anything.  Do you think you could?”</p>
<p>“I can look and see what turns up.  Dreams don’t give me much to go on, though.”</p>
<p>She grabs her laptop and boots it up.  Opening the database, she starts typing.</p>
<p>“There’s something else,” I say.  “Something that Claire mentioned in that interview I watched.  When she was taken prisoner by Umbrella, she met another prisoner.  His name was Steve. He was on Rockfort Island the December after Raccoon.  December 1998. He’s dead now.  His name jumped out at me.”</p>
<p>“Okay, I’ll start with Steve and Rockfort Island.”  She types something, then clicks the mousepad.  “Holy <em> shit</em>.”</p>
<p>“What?  What is it?”</p>
<p>“There were over 10,000 Steves detained at Rockfort Island.  And since the Umbrella files are imports, I can’t sort by date.  How sure are you that this Steve person is worth researching?”</p>
<p>“Very sure.”</p>
<p>“It beats watching soap operas all day, I guess, but I have no idea how long it’ll take me to find his record, if there’s any record to find.”</p>
<p>“Thanks, Trish.  In the meantime, I’ll be preparing for tonight.”  I look at Redfield’s apartment. “So everything goes right this time.”</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>When I finish the McDonald's, I lick the grease off my fingers and lie on the bed with my arm over my eyes to block out the sunlight.</p>
<p>“How was it?” Trish asks.</p>
<p>“Good, but now I don’t feel that great.  My head hurts, and my heart’s pounding like a jackhammer.”</p>
<p>“It’s all that grease and salt.  If you’d eaten something healthy for you, you wouldn’t feel that way.  Drink lots of water and eat a steak for dinner.  You’ll be fine.”</p>
<p>I try to fall asleep, but don't.  I try not to think about tonight, but I think about it anyway.  Taking a deep breath, I remind myself what Trish said last night: <em> Try not to think about it.  It’ll just make you sick. </em></p>
<p>Too late.</p>
<p>“Find anything yet?” I ask.</p>
<p>“Yeah.  A guy named Steven Abbott.  Thirty-eight years old.  From Melbourne, Australia.  He was detained at Rockfort a week before she was brought in.”</p>
<p>“That’s not him.”</p>
<p>“How do you know?  You haven’t even seen his picture.”</p>
<p>“Doesn’t stick out to me.”</p>
<p>My heart is pulsing through the knot of skin -- a mallet pounding a drum lid.  I breathe in and out, massage the thumping bump.  Fill a cup of tap water and drink it.</p>
<p>Maybe exercise will help.</p>
<p>Standing up, I stretch my legs.  My arms.  My back.  My legs and arms together.   I do some sit-ups.  Some push-ups, some mountain climbers.  Crunches.  Leg lifts. Sweat rolls down my face, soaking my shirt.  I grab the knife from breakfast and jab. Take a step back.  Jab.  Sidestep.  Jab.  Turn around.  Jab.  Flip the knife, jab, slice.  Tell myself I have nothing to feel sick over.</p>
<p>Around mid-afternoon, Redfield and Claire come back.  They hang out in his living room for a while.  Then they bundle up and leave again, but they don’t exit the building.  They probably went to the roof for their rematch.  When they come back, they’re wet and laughing. Smiling. Happy. Oblivious to what I’m about to do to him, and her. </p>
<p>“Got two more," Trish says.  "Steven Lawrence, 42 from Los Angeles, and Steven Nesselrod, 34 from Virginia.  Both detained at Rockfort two months before she was brought in.”</p>
<p>“No.  Neither one of them.”</p>
<p>Like Trish suggested, I order a steak for dinner.  Afterward, I feel better, but I still feel sick.</p>
<p>The sun sets.  The sky darkens.  The city lights up, and the street crowds dissipate.  Claire and Redfield watch TV together and eat Chinese take-out for dinner.  Trish keeps sifting through the records while I keep working out and practicing with the knife.</p>
<p>“Hey, how about this one: Steven Houston, 23, from Florida. Detained six months prior to her stint.”</p>
<p>“Nah, it’s not him.”</p>
<p>Trish and I do the questions again.  She sends my answers to Dick.  We leave out nothing except McDonald’s and me going to the Statue of Liberty and talking to Claire.  Dick still calls.</p>
<p>“So, essentially, both of you wasted a whole day of the company’s funds to laze about in your hotel room,” he says.</p>
<p>I stab at the steak bone.  “Not at all, Dr. Mitchell.  It was an information-gathering day.  As detailed in Dr. King’s report, I will complete my mission tonight.  As soon as the lights in the target’s apartment are out and I can confirm that both he and the relative are asleep.”</p>
<p>“I can confirm his plans, Dr. Mitchell.  He spent the morning learning about the target, and he spent the afternoon preparing for completing his mission,” says Trish.</p>
<p>“See to it that it is completed tonight.  The board and some interested investors are coming to the island as soon as you arrive back.  They expect to see V-001 and hear promising things about its performance.”</p>
<p>Trish and I look at each other.</p>
<p>“We understand, sir,” Trish says.</p>
<p>“V-001?”</p>
<p>“Understood.”</p>
<p>“Good.  You had better.”</p>
<p>The line disconnects.</p>
<p>“Awesome.  Like I don’t have enough pressure on me.”</p>
<p>“Demonstrations take at least two weeks to plan.  Why is he holding one so soon?”</p>
<p>“Maybe he’s had it planned.”</p>
<p>“Maybe.  But if he’s had it planned, why didn’t he tell me?”</p>
<p>“Don’t know.”</p>
<p>I breathe in and out, close my eyes to concentrate on breathing in and out.</p>
<p>“Are you okay, Snake?”</p>
<p>I nod.  “Just nervous.”</p>
<p>“Hey, you’ll do fine.  Just remember what I told you.  Don’t think about it.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, it’s not really helping.”</p>
<p>Minutes turn into hours.  Clouds smother the moon. A light snow starts to fall.  One by one, all of the windows in the apartment building go black, including Redfield’s.</p>
<p>“It’s showtime, I guess,” I say, slipping on my eyepatch.</p>
<p>“Good luck,” Trish says.</p>
<p>“Thanks.  I might need it.”</p>
<p>“Don’t say that.  You’ll do great, Snake.  I know you will.”</p>
<p>Slipping the steak knife in my belt, I inhale and hold it.  “I hope so.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 6</b>
</p>
<p>I do the same thing I did this morning: make like I’m checking my phone, then climb the dumpster and ladder onto the fire escape.  Redfield’s apartment looks different in the dark. Foreboding almost. Claire is lying on the couch, facing the tree, her blanket cocooning her.  She’s sound asleep. The same goes for Redfield.</p>
<p>Sliding open the window, I crawl into the room.  I take off my eyepatch, lock the door, and draw the steak knife.</p>
<p>It’s just me and him now.</p>
<p>I stand over him with the knife in my hand, still feeling sick to my stomach.  This feels cheap. Unsporting.  Other things I can’t think of, but it’s what I’m here for -- what I was made to do.  And if I can’t do what I was made to do, I’m dead.</p>
<p>I’ll make it as fast and painless as possible for him.  And for me, too.</p>
<p>I raise the knife, clinching the handle with both hands, and point it at his heart.</p>
<p>One.</p>
<p>Two.</p>
<p>…</p>
<p>What if I miss?  What if the knife is too dull to go through his bone and muscle?  I mean, it <em> is </em> a hotel knife.  They aren’t designed to slice through big hunks of boned flesh and muscle, unlike the knives HCF trained me on.  What I need is a knife like that: a combat knife...or a butcher knife.</p>
<p>Holstering the steak knife, I step away from Redfield.  I unlock the door and pad into the kitchen.  The butcher knife that I select is big.  Sharp.  I jab at the air once, twice.  Draw back. Jab again.  It handles well. There's no doubt it will hit his heart with one thrust.</p>
<p>“<em>Steve! </em>”</p>
<p>I hold the knife at the ready.  The darkness is empty.</p>
<p>“<em>Steve, no! </em>”</p>
<p>It’s Claire.  She’s still asleep but now in the throes of a bad dream.</p>
<p>“<em>Steve, please, no! </em>”</p>
<p>Steve again.  Her fellow survivor, up until his death.  Her ally.  Her protector.  Her friend. Whatever else he was to her.</p>
<p>At least she remembers him.</p>
<p>I pad back to Redfield’s bedroom.  Closing the door, I stand over him and raise the knife. </p>
<p>
  <em> Please let it kill him instantly. </em>
</p>
<p>I force my eyes to open, my teeth to stop biting my lip.  Instead, I grit them like an action hero -- the person in movies who always does the right thing, no matter how hard it is.</p>
<p>One.</p>
<p>Two.</p>
<p>…</p>
<p>One.</p>
<p>Two.</p>
<p>…</p>
<p>
  <em> God damn it. </em>
</p>
<p>Okay.  This is it.  This is the one.  I put on my eyepatch because as soon as this is over, I’m gone.</p>
<p>Okay.</p>
<p>One.</p>
<p>Two.</p>
<p><em> Three </em> --</p>
<p>“Chris?  I heard you walking around.  Did you have a…?”</p>
<p>The door is open.</p>
<p>Claire is standing in the doorway.  She is staring at me, eyes wide, jaw dropped.</p>
<p>I tackle her.  We hit the hall wall.  Clamping a hand over her mouth, I press the knife to her throat.</p>
<p>She muffles, “Please, don’t.”</p>
<p>I hiss, “Then you do exactly what I say.  Got it?”</p>
<p>She nods.</p>
<p>“Good --”</p>
<p>She knees me hard in the gut.  I double over.  She kicks me in the shin and shoves me off.</p>
<p>“<em>Chris! </em>”</p>
<p>She dashes into the kitchen.  I grab her before she reaches the knife drawer.  The lights flash on.  Redfield is standing in the doorway, pointing a handgun at me.  </p>
<p>“Put the knife down, or I’ll shoot,” he says.</p>
<p>Tightening my arm around Claire’s neck, I position the blade at her jugular.  “Put the gun down, or I’ll slit her throat.”</p>
<p>“<em>Chris! Chris, no! </em>” Claire chokes out as she claws at my arm.</p>
<p>Redfield says, “You’re the guy from this morning and last night.  You’ve been following us. Why?”</p>
<p>“Because I have to.  Now back up.”</p>
<p>“What do you mean you ‘have to?’”</p>
<p>“I said <em> back up</em>.”</p>
<p>Redfield slowly backs into the living room.</p>
<p>“Keep going,” I say.</p>
<p>When he’s on the other side of the couch, I force Claire to the hall.</p>
<p>“Now shoot yourself in the head,” I tell him.</p>
<p>“<em>What? </em>” he says.</p>
<p>“Shoot yourself in the head.”</p>
<p>“Look, I don’t know who sent you, but --”</p>
<p>“<em>Shut up! </em>  Just shut up and do it!”</p>
<p>“<em>Chris! </em>” gasps Claire.</p>
<p>I press the blade to her neck.  “I’ll do it.  I swear I will.”</p>
<p>The steak knife flies out of nowhere.  It cuts through the jacket arm and pierces my flesh.  Screaming, I let go of Claire and the knife.  It clatters to the floor.  Claire elbows me in the face and shoves me off.</p>
<p>Beside her lies my eyepatch.</p>
<p>“Jesus Christ,” breathes Redfield.  “What the hell are you?”</p>
<p>Claire just stares at me, eyes wide, clutching the steak knife.  Cupping my arm, I book it into Redfield’s bedroom.  I lock the door and wipe the blood on my pants.  One dresser drawer lies on the floor. The bottom hangs open, revealing a hidden compartment.</p>
<p>
  <em> God damn it. </em>
</p>
<p>Redfield pounds on the door.  I shove open the window and crawl onto the fire escape.  Claire is halfway out the other window.</p>
<p>“<em>Chris!  Out here! </em>” she says.</p>
<p>I race up the stairs.  Claire pounds after me, followed by Redfield.  I step onto the roof--</p>
<p>-- and a bullet rips through my side.</p>
<p>“<em>Don’t shoot him! </em>” she yells.</p>
<p>Up here, the wind whips me in the face.  Pain pulses through my gut, hot and wet like the blood gushing from the wound.  An access shed is nestled in one corner, one little light illuminating the door.  It’s locked.  The iron wrought guardrail that encloses the roof wraps behind the shed.  I force one leg over the top bar, then the other.  Quickly, I shimmy behind the shed.</p>
<p>Feet crunch through the snow.  I loop my arms around the bar and lock them in place.  I grit my teeth, swallow my whimper.</p>
<p>“Chris, where did he…?”</p>
<p>“This way, I think.”</p>
<p>They lean over the guardrail and peer into the alley.</p>
<p>“Damn it.  He’s gone,” says Redfield.</p>
<p>They disappear again.  </p>
<p>“Well, shooting at him probably didn’t help.”</p>
<p>“He put a knife to your throat <em> and </em> he tried to make me blow my brains out.”</p>
<p>“It’s not his fault.  They did something to him.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I’ll say they did.”</p>
<p>“I mean they did something to his memory.  He didn’t recognize me. If he had, he never would’ve pulled a knife on me like that.  Besides, you heard what he said.  He didn’t want to do it.”</p>
<p>“Look, Claire, you’re not going to like this, but until we can catch him and determine who sent him, we have to consider him dangerous.  And we have to treat him as such.”</p>
<p>“You didn’t treat Jill like that when you found her.”</p>
<p>“Jill was different.  She was being controlled.  We knew who was controlling her.  And we didn’t have any other agents at our disposal.  Here, we can file a report, launch a full investigation, get others behind us --”</p>
<p>“That could take weeks.  He could be gone by then.  Even if they found him, they might kill him.  And I can’t let that happen.  I owe it to him.  Like you owed it to Jill.”</p>
<p>Red and blue lights flash below.</p>
<p>“Shit.  The police,” says Redfield.</p>
<p>“Tell them it was a burglar.  I'm going to check out the hotel, see if I can find him or that woman he was with."</p>
<p>"Promise me you'll be careful.  I know he means a lot to you, but --”</p>
<p>"I promise."</p>
<p>The footsteps crunch away.</p>
<p>Now I’m not just cold and in pain.  I’m also sleepy from the blood loss.  But I don’t have time to sleep, not with the cops here.</p>
<p>A drainpipe crawls up the shed.  Using the fastenings, I climb to the top.  Under the light, the blood spats look like pebbles, little black anomalies.  In a few minutes, they’ll be buried by fresh snow.</p>
<p>Rolling onto my uninjured side, I pull out my phone.  There’s a message from Trish:</p>
<p>
  <em> I heard something.  What happened??? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Got hurt.  On roof.  Get out of hotel. </em>
</p>
<p>Now all I have to do is wait.  Wait for the police to leave.  Wait for the apartment building to settle down and Redfield and his sister to go back to sleep.</p>
<p><em> If </em> they do.</p>
<p>If they don’t, I’m dead.</p>
<p>And I don’t want to…</p>
<p>I don’t want to…</p>
<p>To die…</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 7</b>
</p>
<p>
  <em>don’t worry Claire<br/></em>
  <em>your knight in shining armor is here</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>you wish but thanks for your help</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>these things are way more reliable than any person</em>
</p>
<p><em>Steve<br/></em>Steve</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 8</b>
</p>
<p>
  <em>“Snake!”</em>
</p>
<p>My face is blanketed by snow.  I wipe it away with a lead bar of a hand.</p>
<p>“<em>Snake!  Where are you? </em>”</p>
<p>The voice is a hiss, barely audible.  I drag myself to the edge of the access.  Under the light is a dark figure, a bag on one shoulder, looking at something bright.  A phone screen.</p>
<p>“Please-please-please answer.  Please,<em> Jesus</em>.”  It stomps a foot.</p>
<p>“Trish.”</p>
<p>It comes out as a croak instead of a word.  But it’s enough to make her turn around.</p>
<p>“Snake!  Oh, thank God.  I kept texting and calling you, but you never answered.  I was so worried you were...”</p>
<p>“Nah.  Passed out.”</p>
<p>“How did you get up there?”</p>
<p>“Climbed.”</p>
<p>“Yes, but how?”</p>
<p>“Drainpipe.”</p>
<p>“Oh no.  No, no, no.  Snake, wake up.  <em> Wake up </em>.”</p>
<p>Something hits me in the face.  I open my eyes.</p>
<p>“No snowballs.  Already cold,” I say.</p>
<p>My eyes drift close.  Another snowball creams me.</p>
<p>“I am <em> not </em> letting you fall asleep.  You might not wake up.  Now tell me how you got up there.”</p>
<p>“I told you.  The drainpipe.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, well, you were half-asleep when you said it.”  She crunches to one side of the shed, then to the other.  “<em>Shit</em>.”</p>
<p>“Long fall.”</p>
<p>“No kidding it’s a long fall.  I’m going to have to pull you down.”</p>
<p>“Trish, I’m shot.  In my gut.  Hurts.”</p>
<p>“There’s no other way.  Give me your hand.”</p>
<p>I push my arm over the side.  She grabs my hand.</p>
<p>“Okay.  On the count of three.  One. Two. <em> Three! </em>”</p>
<p>Pain shoots through my side, fast and hot like electricity.  I fall headfirst, landing half in the soft snow and half on Trish.  Something tears inside the wound.  I grit my teeth to keep from screaming.</p>
<p>Pulling her legs free, Trish lifts my shirt.  “Oh shit. Oh <em> shit</em>.”</p>
<p>“How bad?”</p>
<p>“It punctured one of your organs.”</p>
<p>“Explains all the blood.”</p>
<p>“Shut up.  I need to patch you and get you out of here <em> now</em>.”</p>
<p>She swings the bag off her shoulder and digs out tape and a roll of towels.  She snaps on a pair of plastic gloves.</p>
<p>“‘S fine.  Regenerative powers, remember?”</p>
<p>“Regenerative powers won’t help you if you freeze or bleed out before they heal your wounds.  Now brace yourself. This is going to hurt.”</p>
<p>She presses a wad of towels against the wounds.  I clench my fists and bite my jacket sleeve not to scream again.  Grabbing more towels, she presses them on top of the others.</p>
<p>“Hurry up!”</p>
<p>“I’m trying!  The blood won’t stop gushing!”</p>
<p>She layers towel after towel on the wounds.  Tears streak across my face, freezing it. She rips off strip after strip of tape with her teeth and smooths the strips over the towels.  Then she takes my hand and places it on top of them.</p>
<p>“Snake, I need you to keep your hand here and press down.  Can you do that?”</p>
<p>I nod.</p>
<p>She slides her hand under me.  “I’m going to raise you into a sitting position.”</p>
<p>I choke back a scream as she lifts me.  Gripping my shoulder, Trish digs a roll of plastic out of her bag and winds it around me about ten times.  She rips the sheet loose and tapes it down. She whips out one of my hoodies. When she’s got my arms stuffed in the sleeves, she pulls it down.</p>
<p>“That’s not going to hold for long.  We need to -- wait, where’s your patch?”</p>
<p>“Redfield’s.”</p>
<p>If Trish heard me, she doesn’t act like it.  Instead, she claws frantically through the bag.  She pulls out a tube and holds it in the light.  It’s my paint tube.</p>
<p>“Oh, thank <em> God </em>,” she says.</p>
<p>After she smoothes the cold paint around, she tosses the tube into the bag and shoulders it. “That’ll have to do.  Come on.”</p>
<p>She pulls me to my feet.  Another shock of pain shoots through me.  Holding me to her, she opens the door and leads me inside.</p>
<p>We take the elevator to the lobby. When we’re outside, Trish steers left.  After about twenty feet, a taxi passes.  She flags it down.  She stuffs me in the back and forces a smile at the driver.  “My friend and I need a ride just around the corner.”</p>
<p>He looks from me to her.  “You kids are celebrating Christmas a little early.”</p>
<p>My head falls on Trish’s shoulder.  “Never too early to celebrate the birth of our lord and savior.”</p>
<p>He laughs.</p>
<p>Trish tells him the name of a hotel I’ve never heard of.  Christmas lights and snowflakes and darkness fly past the cab window.</p>
<p>The lobby of this hotel has a fake tree.  Everyone except Redfield has a fake tree, it seems.  We limp past it to get to the elevator. The woman at the front desk watches us, lifts her eyebrows, and goes back to the book she's reading.</p>
<p>Our new room has only one bed.  Trish sets me on the edge along with her bag.</p>
<p>“You need heat.  I’m going to draw you a warm bath.  Do not, do not, do <em> not </em> fall asleep.  Understand?”</p>
<p>I want to tell her how bossy she’s been today.  I want to tell her it suits her.  I want to tell her thanks.  But instead, I nod.  Swallow spit.  Taste blood.</p>
<p>When she goes into the bathroom, I prop myself on my arms.  I stare at the different TV and different table with a different chair, surrounded by a different room with different wallpaper and a view not of Redfield’s apartment building.</p>
<p>My head hurts.  My heart is thumping.  I think I’m going to puke.</p>
<p>I lie back.  Try not to think about Redfield.  Or Dick. Or Claire.</p>
<p>Try not to...</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 9</b>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Claire<br/></em>
  <em>are you okay</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Steve behind you<br/></em>
  <em>shoot it Steve</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> i<br/></em>
  <em>i can’t</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> it’s okay now<br/></em>
  <em>just rest</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 10</b>
</p>
<p>The room is bright.  Well, not really “bright.”  My headache just makes the sunlight seem brighter than it is.  I’m lying on the bed with a blanket over me, dressed in clean sweats.  I’m very toasty, thanks in part to the heater running. I put my hand on my gut, which is bandaged and taped up.  It doesn’t exactly hurt, but it isn’t pain-free either.  I lift my shirt and pull at the bandages and tape. Two white scars star my skin.</p>
<p>Trish is sitting in the chair, hugging her legs.  She is looking out the window.  The snow is still falling.</p>
<p>Pushing back the blanket, I sit up.</p>
<p>“<em>Snake! </em> ” Trish leaps from the chair and runs to my side.  Her eyes are bloodshot. “Thank <em> God</em>. You scared me to death.  Don’t you <em> ever </em> do that to me again.  Do you understand me?  If something happened to you, I...I don’t know what I’d do.”</p>
<p>I plant both feet on the floor and lean over, hoping the movement will ease the sickness cramping my stomach.  Blood rushes to my head.  The rush is too fast.  Closing my eyes, I give my head a good shake.  I try not to remember.  Not to cry.</p>
<p>“Snake?”</p>
<p>I clear the sob in my throat.  “What happened last night?”</p>
<p>“She came to the hotel.  I took the stairs to the lobby and then went out the back and caught a cab here.  The police were leaving when I went back.  I pretended to be a tenant, and they let me in as they were going out.  Had to crack my credit card to get the door to the roof open, but thank God I did. Then when I got you here, you passed out.  So I sponged you off, changed your bandages and clothes, and tucked you in.  Jesus, you're lucky to be alive, regenerative powers or no.”</p>
<p>“I don’t feel lucky.”</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>I bury my face in one hand so she can’t see the tears about to spill.  “Everything was going fine. Then Claire woke up.  She knocked my eyepatch off, and they saw my eye.  They know someone sent me. Trish, I’m dead.  I’m <em> dead</em>.  Dick’s gonna have me killed.  I just know it.”</p>
<p>Trish’s cell phone buzzes.</p>
<p>“It’s Dick,” she says, standing and walking to the table.</p>
<p>Of <em> course </em> it’s Dick.  Swallowing, I rub away the tears and join her.</p>
<p>“Yes, sir?  No, sir.  V-001 encountered a complication.  The target left in the middle of the day and didn’t return until this...Yes, sir.  Just a minute.”</p>
<p>She presses another button.</p>
<p>“V-001.  Can you hear me?”</p>
<p>“Loud and clear, Dr. Mitchell,” I say.</p>
<p>“Please enlighten me as to why you have not contacted the flight team regarding your return flight from Los Angeles.”</p>
<p>“As Dr. King was saying, I encountered a complication.  My target left early and didn’t return until this morning.”</p>
<p>“Ah.  So you wasted another day of the company’s funds.”</p>
<p>“I don’t think so, considering he was out in broad daylight and had someone with him the whole time.  I <em> am </em> supposed to be keeping a low profile, after all.”</p>
<p>Trish smacks me in the shoulder.</p>
<p>“I see.  Was this the relative mentioned in your past two reports?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Perhaps it would be beneficial to eliminate your target and the relative, especially since it seems you left your hotel in the middle of the night and got a room in another hotel a block away.  Billing was kind enough to forward me the receipt and booking confirmation this morning.  I see Dr. King’s signature on both --”</p>
<p>“The move is my fault, sir,” says Trish.  “I had an allergic reaction to something in our hotel.  The cleaner, I think.  I broke out in hives.  Instead of going to a doctor, V-001 thought it was best to limit our paper trail and simply insisted on moving.  This hotel is still within sight of the target’s home, though.”  </p>
<p>She points at Redfield’s apartment building, peeking between our old hotel and the apartment building beside it.  Redfield’s windows are completely blacked out.  </p>
<p>“V-001 saw to that," she says.</p>
<p>“And as for eliminating both the target and the relative, I would say it wouldn’t be beneficial in the least, considering I tailed them and they went to a Christmas party,” I say.  “Unless you believe it would be beneficial to eliminate everyone at the party, since he wasn’t alone the entire night.”</p>
<p>“I see.  Your target seems quite the busy man.  Almost as busy as the two of you, judging by your numerous ATM withdrawals.  Almost like you're masking your purchases.”</p>
<p>“Cash is less suspicious than credit cards with no credit card company," I say.  "So we've been using cash for food, laundry, tailing my target, and so on."</p>
<p>He says, “I get the feeling you’re not being entirely forthcoming with me.  Both of you.”</p>
<p>Trish and I look at each other.</p>
<p>“We are being totally forthcoming, sir,” says Trish.</p>
<p>“Do you swear to that, Dr. King?  You were hand-picked by Dr. Cabot, and he proved himself to be of poor judgment.”</p>
<p>Setting her jaw, Trish says, “I swear to it.”</p>
<p>“We shall see.  Stay in New York until I speak with you both and can confirm the target’s elimination.  Understand?”</p>
<p>“Understood, sir.”</p>
<p>“Understood, sir.  I won't let you down.  No matter what happens, I'll eliminate my target tonight.”</p>
<p>“I certainly hope so.  I, ah, look forward to our next contact.”</p>
<p>The connection clicks off.</p>
<p>“So first he wants us to hurry back, and now he wants us to stay put?” I say.</p>
<p>Trish sets the phone on the table.  “Yeah, I don’t like it. You’d better kill that guy tonight, Snake.”</p>
<p>“No shit.”  Sitting in the chair, I prop my feet on the window seal and massage the ache in my side.</p>
<p>“Hey.  You can do this,” she says.</p>
<p>“You didn’t see me last night, Trish.  I <em> froze</em>.  I...I couldn’t do it.  I couldn’t do the one thing I’m supposed to do.  I’m a failure.”</p>
<p>“No, you’re not.  You just need to focus on what you need to do and do it.  He doesn’t matter. She doesn’t matter.  Just you.”</p>
<p>I snort.  “It’s easy for you to say.  You’re not the one who has to do it.”</p>
<p>She sits on the edge of my bed.  “Before Dr. Cabot made me your handler, I worked in the viral research lab -- the one on the other side of the guest house.  Working there entailed conducting certain tests.  No matter what kind of virus we were making, we always needed to know the side effects on humans.  </p>
<p>"Sometimes they came in on the cargo planes -- homeless people, runaways, people so desperate for money they’ll do anything...and sometimes they were Gaea employees.  Ones that had tried to take information and gotten caught.  Ones that did get away and the board used their connections to hunt down.  Ones that complained that what we were doing was immoral.  Ones that Gaea's monitoring system caught sending messages to their families and friends for help.  Ones that were incompetent at their jobs.  Some of them I knew.  </p>
<p>"I strapped these people down and I injected them with things that always disfigured them, turned them into monsters, or killed them.  I had to, or it would have been me in their place.” She wipes away the wetness that has glazed her eyes.</p>
<p>I go to her side.  “Oh, Trish. That’s awful.  I’m so sorry.  I didn’t know.”</p>
<p>“I hated what I did to them -- hated it so much that when Dr. Cabot asked me if I wanted to be your handler, I jumped at the chance, even though you scared me.  I still hear their screams of agony.  I hate that I’ll probably have to do it again someday for them.  But I don’t have a choice. It’s them or me, just like it’s you or him.  And if you don’t do it, not only will Dick kill you, he’ll kill me, too.”</p>
<p>“No --”</p>
<p>“Yes.  You don’t know Dick or Gaea or even Dr. Cabot like I do.  There is no escape.  Not ever.” Her tears spill free, and she looks away.  </p>
<p>“Trish --”</p>
<p>“All Gaea cares about is the bottom line.  They know most people don’t have the stomach for what we do like Dick does.  Dr. Cabot had it, too.  They know they can’t let those people leave once they know what they know.  Their own staff is their most convenient source of human test subjects.  A handler who can’t properly prepare a valuable BOW is more useful as a test subject than an actual researcher.  Especially a handler who’s an orphan with no ties to anyone.”</p>
<p>I take her hand.  “I’ll do it tonight.”</p>
<p>“You shouldn't do that.”</p>
<p>"Huh?”</p>
<p>“I mean, you shouldn’t do this.”  She squeezes my hand. “The easiest way to make it impersonal is to never get personal.  Once you get personal, it makes doing it harder.”  Withdrawing her hand, she tucks her hair behind one ear.  “I shouldn’t do it either.”</p>
<p>Standing, I go to the window.  The apartment building’s front door swings open.  Out step Claire and Redfield.  Claire has her bag slung over her shoulder.  Giving him a hug, she goes to the curb, flags down a taxi, and speeds off.  Redfield watches her go.  Once she’s gone, he re-enters the building.</p>
<p>Trish appears beside me.  “What is it?”</p>
<p>“Claire just got in a cab and left.”</p>
<p>“Did he go with her?”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“That’s good, at least.”</p>
<p>“But it doesn’t make sense.  Last night she talked like she was sticking around until they found me.”</p>
<p>“Maybe she’s coming back.”</p>
<p>“Didn’t look like it.  She had her duffel bag with her.”</p>
<p>“You sound disappointed about her leaving.”</p>
<p>“It’s not disappointment.  It’s just...I had two more dreams about her last night.  One on the roof, and one after you brought me here.  The last one...I couldn’t make out what was going on in it.  But there was gunfire, and pain.  And yesterday, when she talked to me, she said I looked like someone she used to know.  Someone who lived in Vermont.  Then last night, she said something to Redfield.  She thinks she knows me from somewhere. She believed it so much she told him not to hurt me.”</p>
<p>“Snake --”</p>
<p>“And somehow, I just know that the guy she thinks I am is Steve, even though she said in that interview that he’s dead.  I mean, I’m not dumb.  I know I can’t be a person, especially a dead one.  But all of these coincidences, all of these dreams, all of these feelings...I don’t understand how any of them are possible.”</p>
<p>“They aren’t possible, Snake.  So please, just drop them and kill that guy so we can get out of this alive.”</p>
<p>“I said I’d do it.  But please, Trish, you have to promise me you’ll show me whatever you find on Steve.  I...I need to know.”</p>
<p> “I promise,” she says with a sigh.  “Snake.  <em>Look</em>.”</p>
<p>Redfield is standing on the curb.  He flags down a cab, climbs in, and speeds off.  In his window hangs a piece of white printer paper.  On it, a black arrow points to the fire escape.</p>
<p>I grab my boots and shove my feet into them.</p>
<p>“Snake, <em> wait</em>.  What if it’s a trap?  You need to think about this --”</p>
<p>“I <em> am </em> thinking about it,” I say, lacing the boots.  “He hasn’t had time to set an ambush.  This is a good opportunity to set my own.”</p>
<p>I shrug into a clean hoodie and my jacket.  The bullet punctured two holes in the side and back.  Trish follows me to the bathroom and watches as I pop in the contact and smear the paint around my eye.</p>
<p>“I don’t like this, Snake,” she says.</p>
<p>“I don’t like anything about any of this.  But I have to do it.  For both of us.”</p>
<p>The cards and my phone lie on the table.  I pocket them.</p>
<p>“I know,” she says.  “Just...please be careful.  Message me as soon as you’re over there and when you leave.”</p>
<p>“I will.  I promise.  In the meantime, keep looking for Steve.”</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>When I reach Redfield’s street, I send Trish a message.  His windows are blacked out by trash bags, it looks like.  There’s another sheet of printer paper taped to his bedroom window.</p>
<p>I pretend like I’m taking photos of the buildings.  Even with the camera’s zoom, I can’t make out what the paper says.  I cross the street and do my “chilling in the alley” spiel until the crowds let up enough for me to climb the fire escape unnoticed.</p>
<p>The sheet is a note, handwritten in black Sharpie:</p>
<p>LET’S TALK<br/>NO WEAPONS<br/>8PM TONIGHT<br/>COME ALONE</p>
<p>At the bottom is a New Jersey address.</p>
<p><em>He put a note in the window.  He wants to talk alone with no weapons, at some railyard in the middle of nowhere, New Jersey</em>, I write to her.</p>
<p>
  <em> Are you going to go now or later? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Later.  I need the dark. </em>
</p>
<p>When I’m back on the ground, I send Trish another message saying I’m on my way back to the hotel.  I find her still sitting on the bed, her laptop closed beside her.  Her face is chalk-white.</p>
<p>“Hey, what’s wrong?” I say.</p>
<p>“Nothing.  Just tired.  I’m going to take a break.  Give my eyes a rest.”</p>
<p>“Did you find out anything about Steve?”</p>
<p>“No.”  </p>
<p>Grabbing her bag, she jams the laptop under some clothes, zips the bag close, and lies with her back to me.  She slings one arm over the bag.</p>
<p>Sitting at the table, I hold my hands up to the heater.  “Did Dick call you or something?  You’re acting very weird.”</p>
<p>“Just scared.  For tonight, I mean.”</p>
<p>“Yeah.  Me too.”</p>
<p>I look at Redfield’s apartment building and all the buildings around it.  The cityscape. The big signs.  The people in the streets.  The sunlight breaking through the clouds.  The snow falling softly.  A beautiful sight, like so many things here.  The movies don’t do it justice.</p>
<p>If I fail, I’ll never see any of it again.  And neither will Trish.</p>
<p>After she gets up, we order lunch: another steak for me, and a glass of orange juice for Trish.  She takes another nap while I do some push-ups and a few knife exercises. Every now and then, I gaze out at the city.  A couple of times, I catch Trish crying.  She sniffles so quietly she probably thinks I can’t hear her.</p>
<p>The snow stops.  And then the sun goes down.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 11</b>
</p>
<p>The railyard is just outside of a small town.  To get there, we take the metro out of the city.  Then we take a train into the town, then a taxi to a diner on the same road as the railyard.</p>
<p>Trish hasn’t cried since we left, but she’s still quiet.  She won’t look me in the eye.  I get it. Tonight, I’m quiet and evasive too.</p>
<p>I jam my hands into my pockets.  “Well, I guess this is where we part ways.”</p>
<p>“I guess so.”</p>
<p>“I’ll let you know what happens.”</p>
<p>She nods.</p>
<p>“In the meantime, get a three-stack of buttermilk pancakes.  Piping hot, with melting butter all over them.  Enjoy them for me.”</p>
<p>I start down the road.</p>
<p>“Hey, Snake?”</p>
<p>I turn around.  Trish throws her arms around me and squeezes me tightly.</p>
<p>“I thought we weren’t supposed to do this,” I say.</p>
<p>She pulls away.  “We aren’t, but I wanted to wish you good luck.  Please...be careful tonight.”</p>
<p>“Thanks, I will.  Now get inside where it’s warm.”</p>
<p>The road winds through the countryside.  One side is fields, with wire mesh fences, and the other side is forest.  I stay on the forest side, where there are big trees to hide behind and the snow doesn’t come up to my calves.</p>
<p>The night is cold but quiet.  Peaceful.  The crescent moon hangs like a white hook caught on the black sky.  The stars shine as brightly as the city’s lights -- as the stars did the morning I left the island. </p>
<p>That’s good.  I need all the light I can get.</p>
<p>The trees thin out.  In the distance, an orangish light illuminates a big, brick building.  Three long trains crawl beside the building.  Pulling out my phone, I check the GPS.  It won’t load. This place is a dead zone.</p>
<p>I cut to the train tracks.  Balancing on a bare rail, I follow it to the empty loading area.  I climb the first train’s caboose until I can peer over the top.  One set of fresh footprints leads to the building door.</p>
<p>Climbing down, I check between this train and the middle one.  The snow here remains untouched.  I head toward the locomotives, peeking between the boxcars at the building.  None of the windows are reachable without a ladder, and the only other way in is through the shutter.  </p>
<p>Keeping an eye on the trees, I make my way to the door.  The knob is broken.  Quietly, I push open the door.  The room is dark, but I can make out the wide aisles, tall shelves, and stock.</p>
<p>A cell phone buzzes.</p>
<p>With my back to the wall, I pad to a wire mesh partition stuffed full of boxes. The door is swinging wide open.  The phone stops buzzing.  I sidestep to the shelf.  I feel around until I grasp something small.  A yard bulb.  I return to the partition door and throw the bulb.  It shatters.</p>
<p>No one comes out.</p>
<p>Inside, a box clatters to the floor.</p>
<p>I inhale and exhale, touch the knife holstered in my belt.  I can do this, I can --</p>
<p>Someone shoves me inside.  The door squeals shut.  A lock snaps into place.  The lights flash on.  Standing before the door is Redfield, handgun at the ready.</p>
<p>“That worked better than I expected,” he says.</p>
<p>A light pair of footsteps walks around the enclosure.  Claire appears.</p>
<p>She pockets her cell phone. “You sound surprised.”</p>
<p>“I guess I’m just used to a more forceful approach.  Okay, first things first,” he says to me. “Turn out your pockets.”</p>
<p>“Thought you said this talk would be weapons-free,” I say.</p>
<p>“It will be weapons-free once we have all the weapons.”</p>
<p>“Look, we just want to talk,” says Claire.  “I don’t know what whoever sent you told you, but it’s wrong.  All of it.  We -- <em> I </em>want the chance to tell you the truth.  Deal?”</p>
<p>I grasp the wire mesh.  “Fine.  Deal.”</p>
<p>“Part of the deal is handing over whatever you’ve got on you,” Redfield says.</p>
<p>“Haven’t got anything on me.  Just like you asked.”</p>
<p>“Right.  And I’m Mary Poppins.”</p>
<p>“You have a nice singing voice, Mary.”</p>
<p>Redfield says to Claire, “Was he always like this?”</p>
<p>“He could be trying at times.”</p>
<p>“Well, at least his personality is intact.”</p>
<p>“Whose personality is intact?” I ask.</p>
<p>“Does the name Steve Burnside mean anything to you?” she says.</p>
<p>
  <em> My name's Steve.  Steve Burnside. <br/></em>
  <em>I’m Claire.  Claire Redfield. </em>
</p>
<p>Steve Burnside.  The name of the Rockfort Island prisoner.  I can feel it.</p>
<p>“It’s familiar,” I say.</p>
<p>“Steve was a boy I met a long time ago.  He was a biohazard survivor, like me.  He was my friend.  He died, but...I was told that he might come back someday.”</p>
<p>“What’s that got to do with me?”</p>
<p>She takes a step forward so she is in front of the fence, her eyes locked with mine.  “It has to do with you because you <em> are </em> Steve.  You suffered so much because of people like the ones who sent you.  Your parents died, you went through hell for months, and then you died too.  You gave your life to save mine.  You’re on the same side as us.  Please believe me.”</p>
<p>I don’t believe her.  I don’t <em> want to </em> believe her.</p>
<p>But what she’s saying -- and my dreams -- <em> they fit</em>.</p>
<p>Except they <em> can’t</em>.  I know what I am and what I was created for.</p>
<p>And I know I want both me and Trish to live.</p>
<p>“If I’m on the same side as you, then let me out of here.  So we can talk, without this -- “ I rattle the wire mesh, “in the way.”</p>
<p>She reaches for the lock, but Redfield places a hand on hers.</p>
<p>“Hand over whatever you have first,” he says.</p>
<p>I draw the knife from my belt.  “All right. I did what you asked.  Now open the door.”</p>
<p>“Kick it under the door.”</p>
<p>“Oh, come on, give me some credit.  I’m a little smarter than literally bringing a knife to a gunfight.”</p>
<p>“Either kick it under the door, or stay in there.”</p>
<p>I let the knife fall.  It clatters on the pavement.  I kick it under the door.  Claire picks it up and slides it inside her own belt.  Pulling a key out of her pocket, she unlocks the lock.</p>
<p>“Now put your hands in the air,” says Redfield.</p>
<p>“Chris --”</p>
<p>“We need to check him, Claire.”  To me, he says, “Come out slowly.  Then put your hands on the fence.”</p>
<p>Claire swings open the door.  “I’m sorry about this.”</p>
<p>I do as Redfield says.  He pats me down, then backs up.  Hands raised, I slowly turn.  He and Claire stand shoulder to shoulder.  Both of his hands hang by his side, his right hand gripping the gun.</p>
<p>“There’s no easy place to start,” says Claire.  “But, for your safety and ours, we need to know who sent you.”</p>
<p>I say nothing.</p>
<p>She continues, “We can offer you protection, but we need to know who we’re protecting you from and what they did to you.”</p>
<p>“No one’s done anything to me.”</p>
<p>“I don’t believe that.  Last night, I could tell you didn’t want to hurt either of us.  Someone sent you -- and whoever it is, they’ve done or threatened to do something to you if you don’t cooperate.”</p>
<p>Behind them is the glass ornaments.  Beside the glass yard bulbs are bags of fertilizer, plastic-wrapped bundles of gardening tools.  Planks of wood.  Boxes of nails.  Stacks of steel pipes.</p>
<p>“Give me a minute here.  This is all a lot to take in.”  I walk to the shelf and put one hand on the support.</p>
<p>“It’s a lot for me to take in, too,” says Claire.  “I didn’t think I’d ever find out what happened to you.  But here you are, after all this time --”</p>
<p>I swing a pipe and ream Redfield in the head.  Screaming, he falls to the floor. The gun clatters beside him.</p>
<p><em> “Chris!” </em> Claire screams.</p>
<p>I grab the gun and turn it on him while he’s still on his knees, groaning and gripping the side of his head.</p>
<p>Claire runs to Redfield, throws her arms around him, and looks up at me.  “No! Please.  Don’t do this.  This isn’t who you are.”</p>
<p>I toss the pipe.  “I<em> wish </em> it wasn’t who I am.  <em> What </em> I am.”</p>
<p>“It <em> isn’t</em>!”</p>
<p>Her eyes are wide.  Desperate.  Pleading.</p>
<p>I still don’t believe her.  I still don’t want to believe her.</p>
<p>And it still doesn’t matter.</p>
<p>“Go in there.”  I wave the gun at the partition.  “Then throw me the key and lock the door behind you.  I’ll call the cops for you after I leave.”</p>
<p>Her eyes slant.  Her jaw hardens.  “No.”</p>
<p>“Do what he says,” Redfield croaks.</p>
<p>“Listen to your brother, or I’ll have to do the same to you,” I say.</p>
<p>Standing, she moves in front of him.  “Then do it.”</p>
<p>“Claire, don’t be stupid!”</p>
<p>I train the gun on her.  “Fine. I will.”</p>
<p>I breathe in.  Breathe out.  Tighten my finger on the trigger.</p>
<p>On the count of three:</p>
<p>One.</p>
<p>Two.</p>
<p>
  <em> Three. </em>
</p>
<p>The gun doesn’t fire.</p>
<p>One.</p>
<p>Two.</p>
<p>
  <em> Three! </em>
</p>
<p>It still doesn’t fire.</p>
<p>My finger isn’t tight enough to pull the trigger.</p>
<p>Claire cocks one eyebrow.  “Well?”</p>
<p>“I’m trying to give you an out so you can <em> live </em>.  Why aren’t you taking it?” I say.</p>
<p>“Chris has never abandoned me.  I won’t abandon him.”</p>
<p>She’s so dumb to stand between her brother and a bullet.  But I don’t <em> feel </em> it’s dumb.  It feels... <em> beautiful</em>.  So beautiful it makes me ache, like a human.</p>
<p>“Why aren’t you shooting?” she asks.</p>
<p>My head and stomach hurt again.  And now my throat burns, too.  My vision blurs.  With one hand, I wipe my eyes until they clear.  “Stop fucking around and <em> go in already </em>--”</p>
<p>Redfield launches himself at me.  The gun goes off.  It skids away as we hit the floor.  He straddles me, pinning me to the floor.  Blood trickles down his face.</p>
<p>“I’ve got him, Claire,” he says.  </p>
<p>I knee him hard in the balls.  He rolls off.  Shooting to my feet, I look for the gun.  I grab the pipe instead. I raise it and turn.</p>
<p>Claire points the gun at me.  “Drop it!  Drop it right now!”</p>
<p>Banking left, I bolt for the door.  She runs after me.  As I get to the door, I throw the pipe at her.  She dodges sideways.  I run to the nearest two boxcars and climb between them.  I jump down and then climb between the next.  I jump down again.  Then I stop.  Footsteps crunch through the snow.  </p>
<p>“Which way did he go?” says Redfield.</p>
<p>“He went through there.”</p>
<p>“Okay.  You go that way.  I’ll go this way.”</p>
<p>“Got it.  And Chris?”</p>
<p>“Yeah?”</p>
<p>“Please don’t hurt him.  For me.”</p>
<p>“I’ll do what I can, Claire.”</p>
<p>The footsteps crunch apart and go silent.</p>
<p>I peer between the boxcars.  Climbing onto the connector, I peek around the corner.  A dark figure appears from behind the caboose.  Redfield, with the pipe.  He walks between the trains, squatting to look under them. The boxcar to my right has a ladder.  I hop on it and climb to the top.  Footsteps crunch below just as I pull up my feet.  The footsteps crunch back the way they came.</p>
<p>I climb down, check for Redfield, and hop to the ground.  Hugging the boxcar, I make my way to the locomotive.  I pause to listen.</p>
<p>Footsteps approach from the other side of the train.</p>
<p>I climb the ladder beside the cabin door.  When I’m on top of the locomotive, I glance over the side.  Claire is between the first train and the one I’m on. She moves forward, gun at the ready.  She looks left, right.  Twists and sweeps.  Continues forward.  She rounds the locomotive. Twists and sweeps again, then stops. </p>
<p>She’s found my tracks.</p>
<p>I push away from the edge.  The ladder prongs ting as she climbs.  I pull out my phone and toss it.  It hits the next train.  She pauses, then drops down.  Her footsteps crunch away.  She kneels and picks up my phone.  Quietly, I climb to the ground.  She stands.  I throttle her into the train.  She collapses against the boxcar.  </p>
<p>The gun and my phone lie beside her.  Miraculously, the screen isn't cracked.  I take them.  She grasps for the knife, but I yank it away and stick it in my belt --</p>
<p>Pain sears through my head.  I collapse at Claire’s feet.  The gun leaves my hand.  I roll over. Redfield has one hand on Claire’s shoulder, the other pointing the gun at me.</p>
<p>“Claire?  Hey, you okay?” he says.</p>
<p>She rubs her head, blinking.  “I’m fine.”</p>
<p>“Can you stand?”</p>
<p>“I think so.”</p>
<p>He helps her to her feet.  She looks from me to Redfield’s pipe on the ground.  Grabbing hold of the pipe, she returns the knife to her belt.</p>
<p>“Look, Claire, I know you want to do this on your own, but the fact is, he’s dangerous now,” says Redfield.  “We need to call this one into the BSAA. They can do more for him than we can.”</p>
<p>She nods.  “You’re right,” she says quietly.</p>
<p>“As soon as we get to a place with cell phone reception, I’ll call them.  In the meantime, we need to lock him up.”  To me, he says, “Get up.”</p>
<p>Head throbbing, I crawl onto my feet.</p>
<p>“Hands up.  Start walking.”</p>
<p>Redfield marches me back to the building.  Claire follows, the pipe at the ready.</p>
<p>“Chris, wait a minute,” she says.  “I want to try one last thing.”</p>
<p>She sets the pipe against the building and digs inside her jacket.  She pulls out a beat-up wallet and opens it to an old photo of a family.  A balding man with glasses, sitting on a couch.  A blonde woman, laughing, beside him.  On his other side is a kid about sixteen or seventeen. Red hair.  Green eyes.  Clearly their son.</p>
<p>Clearly <em> me</em>.</p>
<p>“This is your family,” Claire says.  “Your dad, Alan, was a researcher in Umbrella’s Birmingham office.  Drug formulas, nothing bad.  Your mom, Odette -- she was from Canada.  She moved here when she married your dad.  She was an office manager at a dental practice.  On Wednesdays, she taught private singing lessons.”</p>
<p>I bring the wallet closer.  The kid looks exactly like me.  <em> Exactly</em>.  Down to the very last freckle on his nose.</p>
<p>But how?  I was never this age.  I never had a family<em>.  I was never even human. </em></p>
<p>“Chris, do you hear that?”</p>
<p>“Yeah.”</p>
<p>So do I.  A whirring sound, getting closer and closer.</p>
<p>A double-rotor helicopter appears over the trees.  The air swirls around us, blowing our hair and clothes like leaves in a windstorm.  A blinding blue-white light shines on all of us. The chopper lands in the loading area.  Three big, white letters are printed on the chopper’s black flank.</p>
<p>“HCF?!” says Claire.</p>
<p>“What the hell are they doing here?” Redfield says.</p>
<p>The door slides open.  Out run two helmeted HCF mercs with assault rifles.  Stuffing the wallet inside her jacket, Claire grabs the pipe.</p>
<p>One of the mercs lifts his wrist to his mouth.  “Sir, they’re outside. Yes, sir.”</p>
<p>Another merc with an assault rifle steps out along with a man in a trenchcoat.  They walk toward us.  The merc waves away the first two mercs, who go stand by the chopper.</p>
<p>The man in the trenchcoat takes point.  His dark bangs whip the gauze banded across his wide forehead.  His bulbous nose punctuates a trimmed mustache that reaches his frown lines.</p>
<p>“Ah, snow.  It’s been so long since I’ve laid my eyes upon it,” he says, smiling, as he steps into the building light.</p>
<p>All I can say is, “What the <em> fuck </em>?”</p>
<p>Dick smiles again.  “V-001.  And Chris Redfield, the talk of the bio-weapons dealers’ community.  I must say, your work in Africa earlier this year was inspiring.  I do apologize for the trouble this thing has caused you.  It wasn’t my decision to send it after you.  That mistake lies at the feet of someone the BSAA soon won’t have to worry about.”</p>
<p>He turns to Claire.  “And you, my dear, must be the relative I keep hearing so much about.  Claire Redfield, isn’t it?  The peace crusader?  Lovely to meet you as well, and again, my apologies for any problems this monster has caused you.  But not to worry.  I’ll happily take it off your hands --”</p>
<p>Redfield points the gun at Dick.  “No one’s taking him anywhere.”</p>
<p>The merc takes aim at Redfield.</p>
<p>Dick laughs.  “There’s no need for hostility.”</p>
<p>“I seriously doubt that,” says Claire.</p>
<p>“What are you doing here, Dr. Mitchell?” I say.</p>
<p>“Well, you see, for some years now, I’ve had a dream.  And in the past few months, I’ve finally developed the tools to make that dream a reality.”  He taps the gauze.  “It required very expensive, very precise planning that involved sending you on a mission so I could call a demonstration.  A simple task, but one you managed to botch.  Thankfully, the HCF here were all but happy to oblige an off-the-books contract for holiday pay.  Now, Chris, Claire, if you’ll stand aside --”</p>
<p>Claire raises the pipe.  “Not a chance.”</p>
<p>“Hm.  Very well.  I was thinking of treating myself to an early Christmas gift anyway.  Captain?” He waves a hand.  A wedding band circles his ring finger.</p>
<p>“Yes, sir.”</p>
<p>The merc points the assault rifle at me and shoots.  Pain explodes fire-hot in my chest.  I scream and hit the ground.  The bullet left a grape-sized hole in my shirt, right where my heart is.  From the hole, thick, bright blood gushes.</p>
<p>Claire kneels beside me, frantically yelling something.   She throws the pipe.  It strikes the merc in the face.  Redfield fires, and the merc drops.  Gunfire pops in the distance.  Claire yells something again.  All I can do is cough.  A salty copper taste fills my mouth.</p>
<p>The taste of blood.</p>
<p>Claire shakes me, crying.</p>
<p>Claire…</p>
<p>Claire...</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 12</b>
</p><p>
  <em> Claire i’m sorry<br/></em>
  <em>i know i caused a lot of trouble for you</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 13</b>
</p>
<p>Gunfire explodes everywhere.  </p>
<p>I’m sliding headfirst through the snow.  No, not sliding.  Hands drag me.  Claire pulls me behind a locomotive.  Redfield stands with his back to me, an assault rifle tucked under his arm.  He peers around the corner.  Fires.  Pulls back as bullets slap into the metal.</p>
<p>“Shit.  I wish we hadn’t parked so far away,” he says.</p>
<p>“How many are there?” asks Claire.</p>
<p>“The two that got out first.  Two more that just got out. Who knows how many in the chopper.”</p>
<p><em> “Chris, Claire -- I have no desire to see either of you die,” </em> Dick’s voice booms through a speaker.  <em> “Give me the BOW, and I will let both of you live.  Continue fighting for that thing’s life, and I will kill you along with it.” </em></p>
<p>Claire’s hands leave me as she stands up.  “Chris, give me your handgun.”</p>
<p>He pulls it from his belt and passes it to her.  She blasts the cabin door window.  Jumping on the ladder, she reaches inside and swings the door open.</p>
<p>“What are you going to do?” he says.</p>
<p>More bullets slap into the train.  He fires back. <em> Bang, bang, boom, crack-pop, bang</em>.  It all sounds the same to me.  He yells something.  Even his yelling sounds the same as everything else.</p>
<p>And the dark.  Everything is so dark, even the stars and moon...</p>
<p>Claire slaps me hard.  Slipping her hands under my armpits, she pulls me into a sitting position.  Pain shocks my chest and my back.  I shriek.</p>
<p>“I know it hurts, but you’ve <em> got </em> to stand up,” she says. </p>
<p>She jerks me to my feet.  I howl as the pain burns through me, down to the tips of my fingers and toes.  She lays me face-down on the cabin floor.</p>
<p>“I need you to stand like this for a few seconds.  Think you can do that?”</p>
<p>When I don’t answer, she gives me a slight shake.  I moan in response.</p>
<p>“<em>Stay awake. </em>  Can you stand like this?”</p>
<p>“<em>Yes! </em>” I croak.</p>
<p>The ladder prongs ding as she climbs into the cabin.  She grabs me and drags me shrieking inside.  The other side window explodes, and she slips, pulling me on top of her.</p>
<p>She pushes me off, flips onto her hands and knees.  “I’ll be back. Do <em> not </em> fall asleep again.  Understand?”</p>
<p>I nod.</p>
<p>She hops out of the cabin.  “Chris, I’m going to flank them.”</p>
<p>“Copy that.  Be careful.”</p>
<p>“You too.  Watch out for him.”</p>
<p>I roll onto my side.  Try to sit up.  Stop when more pain shocks me, more blood spills from me.  It pools on the floor.</p>
<p>Far, far away, Redfield’s handgun cracks, pops, bangs.  Just like all the other bullets.</p>
<p>All of ‘em…</p>
<p>The same…</p>
<p>Snap out of it, Snake.  Steve.<em>  Snake</em>.  You need to stay awake.</p>
<p>Stay awake.  Like Claire said.</p>
<p>Stay awake…</p>
<p>Like Claire...</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 14</b>
</p>
<p>
  <em> it’s okay<br/></em>
  <em>i<br/></em>
  <em>i know things were hard for you</em><br/>
  <em>and i didn't say it back there, but<br/></em>
  <em>thank you for saving me</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 15</b>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Cease fire!  Cease fire immediately, all of you!” </em>
</p>
<p>The gunfire stops.  </p>
<p>
  <em> “I tire of this game.  Surrender the BOW now or die!” </em>
</p>
<p>In the distance, Claire yells,<em> “Go to hell!” </em></p>
<p>
  <em> “I had a feeling you’d be uncooperative.  While I admit I am disappointed, I can’t deny I’m excited to try out my new project.  It’s part of the steps I took to make my dream finally come true. Lieutenant, call your men back.” </em>
</p>
<p>Footsteps crunch to the chopper.  I grab hold of the conductor’s chair and force myself up, biting my lip so I don’t scream.  A dark figure stands in the chopper’s doorway.</p>
<p>A <em> big </em>dark figure.</p>
<p>
  <em> “Allow me to introduce you to V-002.  I molded it from the same virus used to create V-001.  In fact, V-001, if you’re still alive, I encourage you to take a long look at V-002.  You may find it, ah, familiar.” </em>
</p>
<p>There’s only the control panel and windshield in front of me, the shot-out side windows to the left and right.  A small cabinet hangs on the back wall. Above the cabinet, a rifle with a scope. Throwing myself at the wall, I grab the rifle.  Prop one foot against the seat base so I don’t slip. Spit blood.  Then tucking the stock under my arm, I slide the scope to my eye.</p>
<p>The figure looks like a big naked man.  A big naked <em> pale green </em>man.  Dark vessels crawl across his body like cracks in old porcelain.  A knot of twisted skin stars the center of his chest like the skin over my heart.  He has no hair, no eyebrows, no pupils or irises.  His forehead is tall, his chin pointed, his nose hawklike, his mouth wide.  So wide he’s almost smiling…</p>
<p>Holy shit.</p>
<p>
  <em> Dr. Cabot! </em>
</p>
<p><em>“I lost a great deal to V-001 and</em> <em>V-002.  But with V-002’s attributes, I will avenge what was stolen from me!”  </em>Dick screeches.</p>
<p>Dr. Cabot walks toward the train.  Redfield and Claire blast at him.  He doesn’t so much as blink.</p>
<p>I bust open the rifle.  The chamber is empty.  I claw the cabinet doors open and grab at a box of shells inside.  My hand is so shaky I drop the first two shells.  I inhale and jam the next one into the chamber.</p>
<p>Cocking the rifle, I move the crosshairs over the knot on Dr. Cabot’s chest.  I tell myself it’s just like killing any other monster.</p>
<p>Then I fire.</p>
<p>Dr. Cabot staggers, groaning, but he doesn’t go down.  When he regains his footing, he glares right at me and growls.  I eject the empty shell.  Load another.  Try to take aim but can’t because I’m shaking all over now.  Pushing against the seat base, I slide myself into the corner beside the window. I nestle the rifle between two juts of glass.</p>
<p>Dr. Cabot is now power-walking toward me.  I breathe in.  Hold it.  Take aim, and fire.  </p>
<p>Howling in pain, he clutches his chest with both chalky green hands.  He sinks to his knees and falls face-down.</p>
<p>Claire flies inside the cabin.  “That was you?”</p>
<p>I open my mouth to reply, but instead I fall forward.  I smack into the control panel before hitting the floor, the rifle under me.</p>
<p><em> “What are you all standing there for?  Get them!” </em>screams Dick.</p>
<p>“<em>Shit </em>,” she hisses.</p>
<p>She goes to the control panel and starts flipping switches, pressing buttons.  Under the floor, something starts to click, buzz, and then whir.</p>
<p>Redfield’s head appears in the doorway.  “What the hell are you doing, Claire?”</p>
<p>“Getting us out of here.”</p>
<p>“Are you <em> crazy </em>?  They have a chopper!  They’ll ram us off the tracks!  We need to fall back into the woods and take cover until we can get to the jeep.”</p>
<p>“We don’t have time --”</p>
<p>Bullets slap the panel above her head.  She ducks.</p>
<p><em> “Get on!” </em> she yells as she twists the train key.</p>
<p>The train gives a lurch and then starts chugs forward slowly.</p>
<p>“Jesus!” Redfield growls as he grabs a high prong and hoists himself inside.</p>
<p>More bullets fly through the window.  Claire and Redfield duck. Stepping over me, Redfield fires then crouches. </p>
<p>“Shit!  I’m empty!”  He peers over the window seal.  “They’re falling back.  Speed it up!”</p>
<p>Claire pushes a lever forward.  “Come on, baby, come on…”</p>
<p>The floor rumbles like thunder, vibrates like a tremor.  I push myself onto one side so my back hits the seat base.</p>
<p>“They’re boarding the chopper!” he says.</p>
<p>I lay one shaking hand on the rifle and push it away.  The stock nudges Redfield’s shoe.  He glances down.  Looks at me.  Drops his gun and grabs the rifle.  Clutching my arm, he shakes me while he yells something.</p>
<p>
  <em> “Hey, stay awake.” </em>
</p>
<p>The floor is getting warm -- because of the engine, I guess.  But I’m still cold.</p>
<p>So cold...</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Chapter 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 16</b>
</p>
<p>
  <em>well, i really hope you find your brother</em><br/>
  <em>i <br/></em>
  <em>i know what it’s like to be alone</em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Chapter 17</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 17</b>
</p><p>Something hits me hard in the face.</p><p><em> “Snap out of it!” </em> Claire yells as she slaps me again.</p><p>“Claire!  Sharp turn!” says Redfield.</p><p>She whirls around and grabs the steering wheel.  She cuts it hard to the right then to the left. Moving to the other window, Redfield aims the rifle high.  He fires once, twice then jerks away as bullets smack into the window seal.  He takes aim and fires again.  More bullets hit the window seal.  He screams and doubles over, clutching his arm.  Blood oozes between his fingers.</p><p>
  <em> “Chris!” </em>
</p><p>“I’m fine.  It just grazed me.”</p><p>He tries to re-shoulder the rifle but doubles over.  Another round of bullets strikes the window seal.  Both Redfield and Claire drop to the floor.</p><p>Standing, Claire grabs the rifle.  “You take the wheel. I’ve got this.”</p><p>“Claire --”</p><p>“Don’t argue with me.  Just make sure we stay on the track.”</p><p>He lets go of the rifle, takes her place at the wheel.  She shoulders the rifle, aims it high, and fires.  She ejects the shell, reloads, and fires again.   Bullets hit the door. She jumps away from the window.</p><p>“<em>Claire! </em>” Redfield shouts.</p><p>“I’m fine!”</p><p>She reaches for more shells.  The train cuts hard to the right.  She stumbles into the wall. The box of shells falls out of the cabinet, and all of the shells <em> ting </em> on the floor.</p><p>“<em>Shit! </em>”</p><p>“What’s wrong?”</p><p>“Lost all my ammo.”</p><p>Kneeling, she reaches for a shell.  The train banks hard to the right.  She stumbles into the seat base.  All of the shells roll toward me.  Some skid through my blood.  I slap two clean shells in place and roll them toward Claire.  She grabs them.  Jamming them both into the rifle, she jumps to her feet.  She takes aim again and fires. Bullets fire back, and again she pulls away from the window.  She ejects the shell.  Cocks the rifle.  Aims and fires.</p><p>An explosion echoes through the night.</p><p>“It’s going down!” she yells.</p><p>A shudder rocks the train, almost knocking her on the floor.  She peers through the window.</p><p>“It’s down!  It crashed behind the trees!”</p><p>“Thank God.  Nice shooting, baby sister.”</p><p>She sets the rifle in the corner and grabs a first-aid kit from the cabinet.  “Nothing a bullet to the fuel tank can’t solve. Make sure the heater is on.”</p><p>Sitting on her knees, she rifles through the first-aid kit.  She takes out a bottle of alcohol, some pads, and a roll of medical tape.  She snaps on plastic gloves and rolls me on my back, almost slipping in my blood.  </p><p>She lifts my shirt.  “<em>Jesus</em>.”</p><p>“How bad?” I spit out. </p><p>Her eyes leave my chest, wander over my stomach and sides.  Looking at my scars in horror. She presses two pads to the hole.  I grit my teeth, but a moan still escapes.</p><p>She eases the pressure.  “What the hell?”</p><p>“What?  What is it?” Redfield asks.</p><p>She prods the skin around the bullet hole.  My heart flutters beneath her touch.</p><p>“It’s my heart,” I groan.</p><p>Laying two more pads on top of me, she lifts me and slides one leg under me.  She presses three more pads against the wound on my back. She lays three more pads on top, presses two more to my back. </p><p>“The blood won’t stop soaking through,” she says.</p><p>“It will.  Half-hour.  Less with pressure.  Keep me awake,” I say.</p><p>She does.  Every time I shut my eyes, she shakes me until I open them, slaps me if I don’t respond.  She keeps layering on fresh pads.  And she keeps talking.  Sometimes I can make out what she says.  Things like, “Hold on” and “You need to stay awake.”  One time she says, “I think it’s slowing down.”</p><p>I watch her.  I feel her.  Her warmth.  Her determination.  Her kindness.  All keeping me alive.</p><p>The cabin warms up.  I swallow the salty copper taste again and again.  After a while, the taste vanishes.</p><p>With one finger, she gently pokes the pads.  “I think it stopped.  No more blood is soaking through.  Hold still.  I’m going to put down another pad then tape everything in place.”</p><p>When she’s done, she leans on one hand, sighing tiredly.  “There. That should hold.”</p><p>I lift a heavy but not-shaky hand to touch the pads, the tape.  They’re expertly secured.  She did as good a job as Trish would have.</p><p>I stare into her beautiful eyes.  “Thank you.  Claire.”</p><p>She smiles when I say her name.  Something in my chest tingles with warmth, making me smile back.</p><p>She slides her hand into mine. “Oh, Steve,” she breathes.</p><p>My eyes close.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Chapter 18</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 18</b>
</p>
<p>It’s still night.  The train is still thundering forward, wind whipping past the broken windows.  Redfield still sits in the conductor’s chair.  White gauze peeks out of the hole in his bloodied jacket.</p>
<p>I’m still lying on Claire.</p>
<p>She sits sideways, feet tucked under her, with her back against the wall.  She grips her phone in one hand.  Her eyes are closed.  She’s wearing only a white sweater now.  Only a sweater, because her jacket is blanketing me.</p>
<p>Under the jacket, her hand is still holding mine.</p>
<p>In my dream just now, we sat side by side, Claire and I.  Her head lay on my shoulder.  Her body curled into mine for warmth as she slept.  I watched her, just as I’m watching her now -- traced her cheek, her jaw, her lips with my eyes, wondering why someone like her would care about someone like me.  Just as I’m doing now.</p>
<p>In my dream, I tried to kiss her.</p>
<p>Kissing, among other things, is something humans do to one another to show affection.  I see it on TV sometimes, and Trish has explained it to me in a very scientific way whenever I've asked about it.  I find it interesting, sometimes even amusing, but I've never wanted to <em> do </em> it, especially with a human.</p>
<p>Claire says I was human -- that I was her friend, Steve Burnside.</p>
<p>But me, a human?  Let alone one that came back from the dead?  It sounds like one of those bogus stories in the Bible that Trish told me about.</p>
<p>Yet I know Claire.  And she knows me.  And somehow we both know Steve.</p>
<p>And Dick managed to turn Dr. Cabot into...something like me.</p>
<p>Could it be possible?  </p>
<p>Me...a <em> human </em>?</p>
<p>Is that why I don’t want to hurt Claire?</p>
<p>Why I...<em>feel affection </em>for her?</p>
<p>Why I...want to <em> kiss </em> her?</p>
<p>I wish Trish were here to talk to.  She'd remind me not to let it get personal.  So I won't.</p>
<p>My phone is still in my pocket.  Redfield has his eyes glued to the tracks.  Claire doesn’t so much as blink as I gently slip my hand out of hers.  Pulling out my phone, I tent the jacket and press my thumb against the screen lock.  I blink my left eye a few times so I can read.</p>
<p>It’s two in the morning.  My battery sits at 47%, my reception is dead.   And Trish has sent me a shit-ton of messages:</p>
<p>
  <em> Contact me when you get this. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> PLEASE CONTACT ME. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> FINE I’M COMING AFTER YOU. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> There’s blood and bullet holes and footprints and smoke everywhere!!!!!  Where are you???? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I’m calling Dr. Mitchell because I don’t know where you are or what happened to you or if you’re even still alive. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Dr. Mitchell’s going to call the general division manager.  He told me to standby while they get a trace on your phone and send HCF out to find you.  Please call me when you get this. </em>
</p>
<p>I write back:</p>
<p><em>BEWARE D AND HCF.</em> <em> D attacked me and tried to kill me.  I'm with C and R on train somewhere. He turned Dr. Cabot into a BOW that he can control.  He contracted HCF to help him get me. He is crazy.  Talked about getting revenge for what Dr. Cabot and I took from him.  Said he staged this for the demonstration.  TELL GAEA AND STAY AWAY FROM D AND HCF.</em></p>
<p>With any luck, we’ll pass a signal soon and my message will send.</p>
<p>Please, please, send.</p>
<p>Claire yawns, stretching.  I pocket the phone and sit up, rubbing my eye.  </p>
<p>“You’re awake,” she says, smiling.  “And moving very well for someone who took a bullet to the heart.”</p>
<p>“Yeah.  Um.  Regenerative powers.  It takes a lot to, uh, keep me down.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, we already figured that one out.  It’s a side effect of the virus you were injected with.  The T-Veronica virus.  It’s probably the same virus that man used to create that Tyrant.”</p>
<p>“Well, anyway, thanks.  For the jacket, I mean.  And for saving my life.  Thanks again, I mean. I hold the jacket out to her.</p>
<p>She takes it and shrugs into it, rebelting the knife.  “You’re welcome.  Now that you’re awake, we have a lot to talk about.”</p>
<p>Redfield glances at me.  “For starters, we still need to know who sent you.”</p>
<p>“And who was the man in the railyard?  What ’dream’ is he trying to achieve?  Why does he think using the T-Veronica virus and killing you will help him achieve it?” Claire asks.</p>
<p>I dig the heel of my hand into my eye.  The discomfort won’t go away.  I pluck out the contact and flick it to the floor.</p>
<p>“I can’t tell you anything,” I say. </p>
<p>“<em>What? </em>”  Redfield twists around. “Why the hell not?”</p>
<p>"I just can't, okay?"</p>
<p>"Well, that's a hell of a way to thank us for saving your ass."</p>
<p>Claire puts her hand on my shoulder.  “You don't have to protect them anymore, Steve.  Just give us their name, and I swear to you, no one will ever hurt you again.  Not that man, not that woman you were with --"</p>
<p>"She isn't like him, or any of them, so leave her out of this," I say as I pull away.  </p>
<p>"Who is she?"</p>
<p>"None of your concern."</p>
<p>"Was she one of the people who gave you those scars?"</p>
<p>I don't respond.</p>
<p>“Steve --”</p>
<p>“<em>Stop calling me that. </em>”</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>“Because I don’t like it, that’s why.”</p>
<p>“Well, what do you prefer we call you?  ‘V-001?’”</p>
<p>“<em>No. </em>”</p>
<p>“Then what?  We can’t just keep calling you ‘you.’”</p>
<p>I lean against the wall and gaze out the shattered window.  “Sure you can.”</p>
<p>I zip up my jacket and tuck my hands under my armpits for warmth.  Claire slides something to me.  It’s the photo of Steve and his family.</p>
<p>“Keep it,” she says.</p>
<p>I pick it up.  Glancing at the man, woman, and kid whose face looks exactly like mine, I stuff the photo in my jacket pocket.</p>
<p>“Claire, I got a bar,” Redfield says, holding up his phone.</p>
<p>She looks at hers.  “Me too.”</p>
<p>I open my jacket enough to check my phone.  A “sent” arrow is beside my message.</p>
<p>“No dial tone, though,” says Redfield.  “<em>Shit. </em>”</p>
<p>“Same here.”</p>
<p>“At least we got a signal.  That means we’re getting close to someplace that isn’t in the middle of nowhere.”</p>
<p>“Finally.  I had no idea there was so much countryside in New Jersey.  Or New York, or Pennsylvania, or wherever we are.”</p>
<p>“The snowstorms didn’t help.  Some towers out here are probably still buried.”</p>
<p>“Hopefully we run across an unburied one before our phones die.  My battery’s getting close to the red.”</p>
<p>“Mine too.”</p>
<p>I don’t know how long passes.  After a while, I stand and lean against the window.  The cold wind smacks me in the face, but I don’t care.  Claire takes Redfield’s place at the wheel. Grabbing the rifle from the corner, he checks the chamber.  He gathers a handful of shells and loads them.  He lays the rifle across his lap with the barrel pointed toward me, one hand gripping the stock.  He settles against the wall, glances at me, and closes his eyes.</p>
<p>Bright stars and bare branches race by the window.  Then fields and rolling hills, all blanketed by snow.  A river, black as ink, parallels the track before skirting away into the hills.  More branches follow, then another field.</p>
<p>A dark shape darts toward the train.  A <em> big </em>dark shape.</p>
<p>The whole train rocks.  I smack into the door.  Claire grabs hold of the wheel.  Redfield shoots to his feet, his finger on the trigger.</p>
<p>“What the hell was that?” he says.</p>
<p>Something thunks, low and heavy, across the locomotive top.  When it reaches the cabin, it stops.</p>
<p>A green gorilla fist punches through the roof.</p>
<p>Redfield scopes the hand and fires.  Blood splatters across the ceiling. The hand withdraws.  Redfield cocks the next shell.  </p>
<p>Massive fingers rip the hole open wide.  Dr. Cabot stares down at me, his whitened eyes devoid of emotion.</p>
<p>A bullet tears into his heart.  Shrieking, he clutches it with both hands and doubles over.  Four thick, dark green tentacles explode from his back.  Each one flattens into a curved blade, long and thin as a scythe.</p>
<p>The bottom two tentacles shoot into the roof.  The blades hook the metal.  Standing, Dr. Cabot turns his empty eyes on Redfield.  A blade flies at him.  He and Claire jump to one side. I jump to the other.  The blade splits the steering wheel and seat.</p>
<p>“<em>Shit </em>,” says Redfield.</p>
<p>He ejects the empty shell, cocks a new one, takes aim -- </p>
<p>The tentacle blade whips the rifle.  The stock and barrel clatter to the floor in two cleanly cut pieces.  Dr. Cabot raises the blade again.  Redfield backs into the wall, his arm blocking Claire.  She grasps the knife in one fist.</p>
<p>“<em>Dr. Cabot! </em> ” I yell over the howling wind.  “<em>Remember me?  Hey, look!  Hey! </em>”</p>
<p>Dr. Cabot turns his blank eyes on me.</p>
<p>“<em>You made me.  I always liked you.  You were nice to me.  Not like Dr. Mitchell.  He’s the one who did this to you.  Not them. </em>”</p>
<p>The blade slithers toward me.  The tip touches my cheek.  Traces my jaw.  Scrapes my skin. When the blade is under my chin, it tilts my head up so I’m staring him right in his eyes.  The tentacle winds around me, locking me in place. It lifts me into the air.  I thrash against the tentacle, but it doesn’t budge.  The other tentacle curls, aiming its blade at my heart.</p>
<p>
  <em> “No, Dr. Cabot, please --” </em>
</p>
<p>Claire sinks the knife into the tentacle.  Dark blood spurts from the wound.  Howling, Dr. Cabot drops me.  The tentacle flails, knocking Claire against the splintered seat base.  Redfield goes to her. They dive against one door as the bleeding tentacle’s blade strikes the base.  </p>
<p>Plucking the knife off the floor, I stab the tentacle.  Dr. Cabot shrieks and slaps me against the other door.</p>
<p><em> “Shit!  Grab onto something!”  </em>Redfield yells.</p>
<p>He’s looking out the windshield.  Ahead, the tracks cut sharply to one side.</p>
<p>Claire and Redfield hug the seat base.  I scramble toward it, but the tentacle whips me across the back.  Pain explodes through me, hot and quick.</p>
<p>The train rocks hard again.  Dr. Cabot stumbles, almost falling.  Branches smack him in the face and chest.  He blocks his face with one arm and his heart with the other.  His two free tentacles whip and slice the branches.  A thick branch strikes him and splinters apart.  He moans, releases his hold on the roof, and falls into the darkness.</p>
<p>Claire reaches for my hand.  I reach for hers. Then the train rams a big tree, and I rocket into the control panel --</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Chapter 19</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 19</b>
</p>
<p>Steve<br/><em>hold on i’ll waste that monster and then come back</em></p>
<p><em> Claire forget about me <br/></em>run</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Chapter 20</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 20</b>
</p><p>Something hits me in the face.</p><p>“Come <em> on</em>, we’ve got to run!” Claire hisses as she slaps me again.</p><p>I try to sit up, but pain shocks me.  I touch my head, grit my teeth so I don't scream.  She pulls back my eyelids.</p><p>“His pupils are dilated,” she says.</p><p>Somewhere beyond the pounding in my skull, I can make out the whirring of a helicopter.</p><p>“We have to ditch this train <em> now</em>,” says Redfield.</p><p>Claire grabs both of my wrists and lugs me through the hole in the roof.  Redfield peers around the grill. </p><p>“Fall back,” he whispers.</p><p>Twisting me sideways, Claire hauls me away from the train.  The trees sail over me so fast it makes me sick. The two lights in the distance don’t help, either. </p><p>“This way,” says Redfield.</p><p>He directs us to some bushes.  Kneeling, he peeks through the leaves at the lights.  “They’re almost to the train.  They’re going to follow our tracks straight to us.  We need to take them out.  I'll take the one on the left.”  </p><p>"Got it."</p><p>She holds my head while they push me under a bush.  He grabs a fist-sized rock.  She draws the knife.  Their footsteps crunch away.</p><p>The snow feels cool, soothing to my head.  I start to feel drowsy.  I grab a fistful of snow and smear it on my face until I feel awake again.  I turn so I can see the lights.  The two mercs stand by the hole in the locomotive roof.  One light swings from the train to the ground.</p><p>“Sir?  The train cabin is empty.  But we’ve got two sets of footprints, one a men’s sneaker, one a women’s boot, and a skid track.  Looks like two of them dragged the other one out. I copy, sir. Over and out.  Doc wants us to follow ‘em and report on what we find.”</p><p>A rock smacks the train.  Both mercs turn, pointing their guns toward the caboose.</p><p>“You cover me.”</p><p>“Copy that.”</p><p>Claire darts from the shadow of a tree.  She moves behind the second merc, then jams the knife in his throat.  The first merc turns.  Redfield snakes his arm around the merc’s neck and snaps it.  Both men slump to the ground.  Claire and Redfield take the assault rifles.  </p><p>Dick’s voice echoes through the night: <em> “Based on my men’s silence, I assume they are dead.  I also assume that they met their end at your hands, Claire and Chris, which leaves the BOW as the injured you’re so stupidly trying to save. </em></p><p>
  <em> “I consider myself an overall forgiving man.  I only want to avenge what the BOW’s existence has cost me.  Abandon your futile attempt to save the BOW and leave now, and I swear I will let you live. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I’ll give you thirty seconds.  If you’re still here after thirty seconds have passed, your deaths will be on you.” </em>
</p><p>Claire and Redfield run to me.  Gritting my teeth, I drag myself out of the bush.</p><p>Claire kneels beside me.  “Can you stand?”</p><p>“I think so.”</p><p>
  <em> “Tick-tock.  Time’s almost out.” </em>
</p><p>She grabs my hand and pulls me up.  I fall into her.  She slips her arm under mine to prop me up.  A light shines by the locomotive.  I throw myself on her.  We hit the ground as bullets fly over us.  Redfield fires back.  The man collapses, his light pointing skyward.  More lights appear in the distance.</p><p>Claire pushes me off.  Standing, she grabs the assault rifle stock.  She and Redfield haul me to my feet. We run into the darkness, their hands gripping me.  Claire leads while Redfield watches our backs, gun aimed at the lights.  Shots pop, slapping into the trees.  Redfield fires back. Bullets zip by Claire.  Spinning, she returns the shots.</p><p>The lights are close -- so close I can make out the night-washed faces behind them.  Redfield and Claire fire in a fan, take a step back --</p><p>-- and we all fall.</p><p>I hit the ground face-up and tumble down a steep hill.  I roll off a flat rock and fall into freezing water.  When I surface, the frosty air knives me raw.  Overhead, the lights appear. A hand covers my mouth.  It’s Claire.  She leads me to the rock I rolled off.  We duck under the outcropping.  A light ghosts the glassy surface.</p><p>“See anything?”</p><p>“Nah.  Must’ve crawled out somewhere.  Can’t have gone too far.”</p><p>The light drifts to the outcropping.  Claire moves closer to me, shivering, her breath steaming in white clouds.  The light glides off the water.</p><p>“Well, keep lookin’.  The doc ain’t payin’ for assumptions.”</p><p>“You know, I wonder what he’s got planned.  You don’t pull an operation like this and expect to live, let alone keep your job.”</p><p>“Long as the money’s good, who cares?”</p><p>“As long as the money’s good <em> and </em> Gaea doesn’t find out, you mean.  If Gaea finds out HCF double-dipped, we’re probably all screwed.”</p><p>“Shit, with the money we’re makin’ off this job?  We can all buy new identities and go live like kings in the Caribbean.  Just gotta find the freak first -- hopefully before the other freak recovers and Doc makes us search with it."</p><p>Footsteps crunch away.  The light fades.</p><p>“<em>Gaea? </em>   The pharmaceutical company?  <em> That’s </em> who wants Chris dead?”  Claire whispers.</p><p>“Now isn’t really the time to talk about it.”</p><p>“Well, make no mistake: we <em> are </em> going to talk about it.”</p><p>Footsteps crunch by.  Lights skim the water.  Every now and then, a man reports that he’s found nothing.</p><p>A light shines on the water.  “Sir, there’s no trace of them anywhere.  My guess is they hopped in the water and followed the current downriver.  Our best bet is to keep searching there. Affirmative, sir.  I’ll contact the men.  Over and out.  All units, report back to the chopper.  Doc says we’re moving this show downriver.  Over and out.”</p><p>The footsteps and lights disappear.  The chopper’s whirring fades.  We swim to the nearest bank and climb out.  Claire tries to cock the assault rifle, ejects the clip, and checks the barrel.  </p><p>“It’s totally waterlogged.  Ice is going to bust it.”  Tossing it all, she checks her cell.  "It's dead. <em> Shit</em>."</p><p>“Hey.”</p><p>We whirl around, Claire brandishing the knife.</p><p>Redfield puts his hands in the air.  “It’s just me.”</p><p>Sighing, Claire belts the knife and hugs him.  “Thank God.  I was so worried.”</p><p>“What happened to you?”</p><p>“The river.  You?”</p><p>“High ground.”  He nods at a nearby tree.  “And guess what?  I found us some shelter.”</p><p>He leads us to a hunting cabin nestled in a clearing upstream. Footprints sprinkle the path to the cabin.  The door swings off its hinges, the bolt blown free.  Snowy tracks stain the sanded floor.  Redfield jabs the thermostat's buttons.</p><p>"Power's out," he says quietly.  “Look for anything we can use."</p><p>He heads into the kitchen area.  Claire cuts through the living room to a closed door.  That leaves me the other closed door.  It opens into a bedroom.  An undressed mattress rests on a carved frame. I grab the flashlight off the nightstand.  The closet stocks blankets and a couple changes of clothes but nothing else.  </p><p>I strip off my wet clothes.  The bullet wound feels tender but not tender enough to merit spending the night wrapped in cold, soggy padding.  I undo the dressing and wipe myself clean with one pad's unsoiled corner. The hole in my heart sealed shut, but not the hole in my skin.  I pull on a flannel sweater and sweatpants. Miraculously, my cell phone is still alive at 36%.</p><p>As I'm hanging my pants and jacket on one of the bedposts, the door opens.  Claire walks in, flashlight in hand, her damp hair hanging free.  </p><p>She hands me a towel.  "For drying off."</p><p>"Thanks.  There's some clothes in the closet," I say, ringing my hair with the towel.</p><p>She pulls a pair of sweats out of the closet and looks at me, cocking an eyebrow.</p><p>"Oh, sorry."  Face burning, I leave and close the door.</p><p>Redfield stands at the kitchen island.  He shines a flashlight on the things sitting on the countertop.  A couple of small heaters.  Battery packs.  White-labeled cans.</p><p>"No guns or knives?" I say, tossing the pads and hoodie.</p><p>"None."</p><p>I pick up a can.  It's sausage and beans.</p><p>"At least there's food," I say, tugging at the lid tab.</p><p>Redfield yanks the can away.  "Before we do anything, we need to talk.  Claire says Gaea International is behind this.  Is that true?"</p><p>"I told you --"</p><p>"We saved your <em> life</em>.  Several times, at great risk to our own lives, even after you hurt my sister and tried to kill me.  The least you can do is tell me <em> why</em>."</p><p>The bedroom door opens.  Claire steps out, dressed in baggy sweats.</p><p>"I don't know <em> why</em>.  I just do what I'm told,” I say.</p><p>"So you're just being a good little soldier, huh?" Redfield says.</p><p>"Yeah.  Sorry your number got called.”</p><p>I grab another can.  Redfield reaches for it.  Wrenching it away, I sit in a corner and pop open the lid.  I’ve got a mouthful of sausage and beans when Claire and Redfield approach me.</p><p>“Forget it.  I’m not telling you shit,” I say.</p><p>“Oh yes the hell you are —”</p><p>“Chris, let’s drop it for tonight.  We’re all tired and cold and hungry.  Let’s eat and get some rest.”  She looks at me pointedly.  “We’ll pick back up on this tomorrow.”</p><p>Redfield grumbles something, and they go back to the island for sausage and beans.  When they finish, they haul the heaters and battery packs into the bedroom.  Tossing the empty can in the trash, I bundle up as best as I can on the couch.  Despite all of the bungling, I can’t stop shivering.  </p><p>A light shines on me.  It's Claire.</p><p>“Hey, ‘you.’  Do you want to freeze or stay warm?” she says.</p><p>I follow her into the bedroom.  The heaters sit on the nightstand, now at the foot of the bed.  They give off a comfortable warmth that fills the room.  Redfield lies unmoving on the bed, cocooned in a blanket.  Closing the door, Claire takes Redfield's assault rifle from the corner, hands me a folded blanket, and nestles in beside him.  Resting against the headboard, she sets the gun on her lap. I settle on the floor.</p><p>“Hey."  She scoots closer to Redfield.</p><p>I watch her, then climb in next to her.</p><p>"It's Snake," I say.</p><p>“Huh?”</p><p>“I prefer to be called Snake.”</p><p>“<em>Snake? </em>”</p><p>I nod.</p><p>“Well.  At least it’s a name.”</p><p>I close my eyes.  I tell myself just to sleep, to not think about anything, especially not what's happening or how I'm going to get out of this.  And I don't.  Instead, my mind drifts to Claire -- to her eyes, her smile, her soft skin, her lips, and her warmth.</p><p>After a while, I stop shivering.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Chapter 21</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 21</b>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Steve </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Claire<br/></em>
  <em>i’m sorry i failed you</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> don’t worry about it <br/>l</em>
  <em>et’s get out of here </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> i swear i’ll protect you next time Claire </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Chapter 22</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 22</b>
</p>
<p>Sunlight streams through the linen curtain.  The room is freezing again.  </p>
<p>Claire's clothes are gone.  So are Claire, Redfield, and the assault rifle.  </p>
<p>I go into the kitchen.  The boot prints are long dry.  I open the front door.  Snow drifts to the ground, blanketing any evidence of last night.  Two figures stand talking in the long, winding driveway.  Claire and Redfield.  She has the assault rifle slung over her shoulder.  Redfield has his phone out.  I check mine.  8:24 AM on December 22nd, 2009 with only 29% and not one bar.</p>
<p><em> Awesome</em>.</p>
<p>Closing the door, I return to the bedroom and change.  I keep the sweater on.  As I come out, Claire and Redfield enter the cabin.  </p>
<p>Redfield stands in front of the door.  “We’re done dawdling.  We want answers, and we’re not going anywhere until you give them to us.”  </p>
<p>“You can’t be serious,” I say.  “We’re stranded in the middle of the woods during a snowstorm.”</p>
<p>Claire sits on the couch.  “We’re aware, and we <em> are </em> serious.  And the more stubborn you are, the harder the BSAA will go on you.  Now tell us: who was that man last night?  What does he want?  How is he connected to Gaea and how does the T-Veronica virus fit into all of this?"</p>
<p>"So you two want us to hang out here until we die of hypothermia.  Perfect plan.  But hey, at least I’ll get to complete my mission."</p>
<p>"Claire and I are getting along fine,” says Redfield.  “You, on the other hand, seem to always need someone to bail you out.  Almost like you've got no experience whatsoever doing this."</p>
<p>"Fuck you --"</p>
<p>"Guys, stop," says Claire.  "We're just trying to help you, Steve.  <em> Snake </em> --”</p>
<p>"No, you're trying to help a kid who's been dead for eleven years." </p>
<p>"<em>And </em> who was infected by the T-Veronica virus.  People who are infected by T-Veronica can 'become one' with it and develop abnormal mutations -- not just regenerative powers but also insectile or reptilian features, green skin and scales, super strength, flammable blood.  The ability to control anyone or anything infected by a raw sample of their strain of the virus. Infectees can become one with it through a fifteen-year coma or multiple organ transplants."</p>
<p>"So fucking <em> what</em>?"</p>
<p>"I can tell by the surgical scars on your body that you've undergone at least twenty different procedures.  And your buddy said he used the same virus to make that Tyrant as he used to make you.  It looks and functions exactly like something infected with the T-Veronica virus.  Plus, he can control it.  Look, there's a virus research facility that opened where Raccoon City once stood -- a woman who became one with the virus lives there.  They're working on a cure for her.  We can get you help --”</p>
<p>“I am a BOW who was designed to<em> kill</em>, Claire.  I was sent to kill your brother.  I am <em> not </em> human.  And I’m definitely not some dead kid who magically came back to life and found his way back to you."</p>
<p>“How do you know?  You won’t tell us anything.  You won’t hear us out.  You just blindly accept whatever they or that woman tells you --"</p>
<p>“Because if there is one thing I <em> do </em> know, it’s that you can’t change who or what you are.  No matter how much you might want to.”  I take out the photo of Steve and his family and toss it on the couch.  "Face it: you made a mistake.  Now <em> drop it</em>."</p>
<p>Claire stares at the photo.</p>
<p>"Are we done here?  Or are we going to play 20 Questions until we all freeze to death?" I say.</p>
<p>She tucks it into the old wallet.  “We’re done.  Chris, let’s go.  The BSAA can deal with him.”</p>
<p>Without looking at him or me, she goes outside.  I try to follow, but Redfield blocks the doorway.  His finger grows tight on the trigger.</p>
<p>“I don’t show mercy to anyone who hurts someone I care about,” he says.  “But I can see in your eyes that you don't want to hurt anyone and that, more than anything, you’re afraid.  </p>
<p>"I don’t know who or what you are, but I do know that what Claire is going through is what I went through when I found my friend Jill, who I thought was dead.  Claire is one of the kindest, smartest, most compassionate people I’ve ever known, and she’s put her life on the line for me more times than I can count, just like she and I have both done for you.  You owe it to her to hear her out. Regardless of what’s going on, you’ll be helping yourself and your friend.”</p>
<p>“Are you coming?” Claire calls from the driveway.</p>
<p>“Right behind you,” Redfield says.</p>
<p>He pushes me forward.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>We follow the snow-blanketed road north.  Claire leads by a good distance.  Redfield and the assault rifle bring up the rear.  We stay under the trees, where cover is denser and walking is easier.  At one point, we hear a whirring sound in the distance.  We stop beneath a canopy of branches until the whirring fades.</p>
<p>Not long afterward, Redfield's phone battery dies.</p>
<p>Seas of forest become rolling hills of field.  We follow an old, rotted fence to keep to the road.  No one drives by. Silence lingers heavily, like the scent of blood and sweat after a fight. The sun starts to fall.  </p>
<p>We spot a thick knot of trees.  A sturdy metal fence winds behind them.  We break under a big evergreen.  </p>
<p>“I’m going to scout out the area.  See who's around, if anyone,” Redfield says.  He holds out the assault rifle to Claire.  “Here.  In case you need it.”</p>
<p>She shakes her head.  “You need it more than I do.”</p>
<p>“You sure?”</p>
<p>“Yeah.  I've still got this.”  She pats the knife.</p>
<p>“Okay.”  He glances at me.  “Be careful, baby sister.”</p>
<p>“I will, big brother.”</p>
<p>After Redfield crunches away, she disappears behind the trunk.  I check my phone.  It’s holding at 16%.  No trace of a signal anywhere.</p>
<p>No sound from Claire, either.</p>
<p>She's leaning against the trunk, looking at the photo of Steve's family.  She doesn’t so much as glance at me as I approach.</p>
<p>"He had this on him when he died," she says.  "I kept it to give to his family.  If it weren't for Chris's report, I don't think anyone would have believed me about his death, or anything else for that matter.</p>
<p>"His school and his parents' friends put together a memorial at the community center.  Chris went with me.  I felt as small as I did during my parents' funeral when I was 12.  I gave them this photo to put on the picture boards beside the flowers.  They showed a video of him playing with two other boys in a school talent show.  He was the guitarist and back-up singer.  And they showed a video of him and his dad watching his mom sing at an open-mic night.  She had a sweet, delicate voice. </p>
<p>"I told everyone that he died saving my life.  I said I'd always remember him.  When it was over, they asked me if I wanted the picture back because he and his dad had been the last ones and there was no one to give it to."</p>
<p>"Claire --"</p>
<p>“You're just a <em> thing </em> to them.  They hurt you and make you kill people, so I don't understand why you're still protecting them when we're offering to protect you."</p>
<p>"The only one I care about protecting is my...my friend."</p>
<p>“<em>Why</em>?  After what she's done to you?"</p>
<p>The snow drifts to the ground as steadily as sand in an hourglass.  The fields, hills, and trees all rest in silence.</p>
<p>“It was nine months ago, back in March, when I first woke up,” I say.  “It was cold. There was a bright light.  A bunch of people in lab coats were standing over me.  They were talking back and forth.  I couldn’t understand anything they were saying.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“One of them noticed I was awake.  A balding man with glasses.  He was the BOW that attacked us.  He was smiling.  The man you saw yesterday -- the one that turned the other man into a BOW -- he was there, too.  He looked at me with disgust.  All the others looked at me in awe. Amazement.  Fear.</p>
<p>“Dr. -- the man with glasses started talking to me.  He wouldn't shut up. And then I suddenly got what he was saying.  He was saying, ‘Wake up, wake up -- and welcome to the world.’</p>
<p>“He asked me a bunch of questions.  How I felt.  If I could understand what he said.  He said if I could answer, to say something.  I tried, but it came out as a garbled mess.  They all laughed.  I tried to move.  He told them to restrain me.  He shot some kind of blue sedative in my arm.  It knocked me out cold.</p>
<p>“When I woke up, it was quiet.  They’d all left except for a woman.  I could tell by the look on her face that she was scared of me.  She sat in a chair on the other side of the room the whole time.</p>
<p>“When she saw I was awake, she stood up.  She walked along the wall to the door.  By then I was trying to sit up again, but I couldn’t because they’d belted me down.  I moaned at her.  It was all I could do.  She stopped, turned around, looked.  I guess she noticed me shivering because she got a blanket from a cabinet, and laid it over me.  I looked up at her.  She told me she was going to leave for just a minute to get the doctor.</p>
<p>“When she came back, it was with the balding man and all the others.  They took off the blanket. Then they poked me.  Prodded me.  Stuck me with stuff.  Hooked me to monitors.  The works.</p>
<p>“She stayed through it all.  Even helped.  But she also talked to me through it all, told me it was okay.  That it would only hurt for a little bit.  That I could sleep again afterward.  When it was all done and they had left, she stayed and covered me up again.</p>
<p>“She’s the one he assigned to be my handler.  To take my blood, make sure I’m healthy, and I’m where I need to be and all.  She helped me learn how to walk, talk, do everything that humans do.  She was there when they started testing me for powers.  Cutting me.  Shocking me. Burning me.  She helped them when they told her to.  And she was there when they told me what they created me for.  Started making me train. She was always there during it, no matter how horrible it got, and she was always there after.</p>
<p>“I tried so hard to say her name right.  But I couldn’t, not even her first name, not until later.  So I gave her a nickname.  One I could pronounce. In return, she started calling me ‘Snake’ when it was just the two of us.  Not just because of my eye and skin.  Snakes are wise creatures in some human cultures, she said.  She said I was like them because I was smart.</p>
<p>"She’s always been there for me.  She’s always been kind to me.  Patient.  Caring.  She's even saved my life.  I wish we could be free like you and your brother.  But Gaea has connections everywhere.  They'll hunt you down and kill you, or experiment on you until you die.  And I can’t leave her to die like that.”</p>
<p>“You don't have to," Claire says.  "It’s been less than 24 hours.  If she’s still in New York, we can get to her before they do."</p>
<p>“And if she’s already back with them?”</p>
<p>“We will find a way to get her out.  Just please, Snake, <em> please </em> accept our protection.”</p>
<p>Sighing, I keep my eyes on the white.  “I can’t.”</p>
<p>“So you’re going to, what, kill my brother and then keep killing for them?  Keep going back to them so they can hurt you and rob you of your dignity, assuming they don't kill you once they've developed the next model?  What kind of life is that, for you <em> or </em> her?  You have a <em> choice </em> --”</p>
<p>“Oh gee, it sure is easy for you to talk, huh?  You’ve got all this freedom.  You can go wherever you want, do whatever you want, be whoever you want.  But I don’t.  And she doesn’t either, not anymore.  We do what we’re told, or we’re no good to them.  If we’re no good, we die.  Even if they do kill me in the end, at least they won't kill her."</p>
<p>"You are so naïve if you think that's going to save her."</p>
<p>“Yeah, well, at least I'm not stupid enough to keep searching for someone who's been dead for over a decade."</p>
<p>She glares at me, then marches to the other side of the tree.  She squats along the edge of the tree's canopy.  </p>
<p>“Claire?” I say.</p>
<p>“<em>What? </em>”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry for what I said.  I’m the stupid one, not you.  I just wish there was an easy choice here.  One where no one got hurt."</p>
<p>She looks over her shoulder.  “It isn’t just your friend, is it?  You’re afraid of something else. What is it?”</p>
<p>I squat beside her.  “The possibility I’m not who or what I thought I was.  That I was lied to. That I went through all of it for nothing.  So...everything, I guess.”</p>
<p>Kneeling, she opens the wallet. The first photo is one of the photos on Redfield's dresser -- the one of their parents.</p>
<p>“My mom was an English teacher,” she says.  “She had a reputation for being tough, but she knew you had to excel in order to succeed.  Dad was the same way.  He owned his own autobody repair shop.  The best one in town.  This wallet was his.</p>
<p>“Something they often told me and Chris is that nothing is safe.  Everything has risks.  Never make a decision thinking you’ll be safe, because you never are.  I try to keep that in mind when I have to make a tough decision and I’m scared I’ll choose wrong.”</p>
<p>“It’s hard to imagine you scared.  You’re so brave, and smart, and strong.  You can kill when you need to --”</p>
<p>“Killing doesn’t make you any of those things.  Making the right decision, no matter how hard it is, does.”</p>
<p>She flips the photo.  The next photo is the one of Steve and his family.  They look so happy.  So loving.  So like Claire’s family.</p>
<p>Is this something I actually had?  A human life?  A happy, loving family?  A home?</p>
<p>Is this something I want?</p>
<p>“How sure are you that I’m Steve?” I ask.  “I mean, you didn’t know him that long.  What if you <em> are </em> making a mistake?”</p>
<p>“Survival forces you to get to know people in ways you normally wouldn’t.  I don’t think he ever realized just how brave he really was, not even when he gave his life for mine.  Before he died, he said something to me, something that’s stuck with me and made me realize that the greatest hope any of us have of surviving the pain and destruction that bioterrorism causes is compassion.”</p>
<p>“What did he say?”</p>
<p>She sticks the wallet in her jacket.  “Something that makes me really sad knowing what kind of life you live, and that you’re willing to walk back to it instead of fighting for something better for yourself and your friend.”</p>
<p>A heavy breeze gusts through the trees.  The branches above us shake.  Snow spills on us.</p>
<p>I shake out my hair.  “Awesome.”</p>
<p>“My thoughts exactly.”</p>
<p>Snow plasters her hair, face, and chest.  I bust out laughing.</p>
<p>She bats off the snow.  “What’s so funny?” </p>
<p>“You look like Frosty the Snowman.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I look like Frosty the Snowman, do I?”  She grabs some snow and creams me in the face.  “Now who looks like --”</p>
<p>I get her in the chest and shoot to my feet.  Snagging some snow, she throws a ball at me. It hits me in the shoulder.  She dashes behind the tree.</p>
<p>“This is a bad idea, you know,” I say, grabbing a fistful of snow.  “You don’t have regenerative powers.  You could get sick.  You could develop pneumonia.”</p>
<p>I sneak to the tree and peer around.  A snowball hits me.  I throw my ball, but she races right.</p>
<p>“I’m already cold and wet.  Might as well have some fun,” she says.</p>
<p>I go for more snow, but another ball hits me.</p>
<p>“You know, you are really slow,” she says.</p>
<p>I snag more snow and sling it.</p>
<p>She sidesteps it.  “You are really, really, <em> really </em> slow.”</p>
<p>“Lady, you’re asking for it.”</p>
<p>“Oh?  What am I asking for?”</p>
<p>“This.”</p>
<p>I reach overhead and shake one branch.  Snow topples free, creaming her.</p>
<p>She brushes away the snow.  “That’s a foul!”</p>
<p>“Yeah?  What’re you going to do about it?”</p>
<p>She bends down and packs together a big ball.  “You know exactly what I’m going to do about it.”</p>
<p>I step behind the tree.  “You know it’s not the size that matters, right?  It’s whether or not it hits the other person.”</p>
<p>She whips the ball at me.  It gets me in the hip.  She runs into the sunlight.  I race after her.  She cuts left.  I hook her with one arm.  We slip and hit the ground.  She lands on top of me, face buried in my chest, laughing.  Placing her hands on either side of me, she props herself up so she’s looking down at me.  Her hips are digging into mine. </p>
<p>The snow has stopped. </p>
<p>“Are you okay?” she asks, smiling.  Her bangs curtain her eyes.</p>
<p>“Huh?”</p>
<p>“Are.  You.  Okay?”</p>
<p>“Oh.  Yeah, I think so.  Are you?”</p>
<p>“Yeah.  You broke my fall.”</p>
<p>“You’re welcome.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t say ‘thank you.’”</p>
<p>I tuck her bangs behind her ear.  “No thanks needed.”</p>
<p>She lingers on top of me, eyes locked with mine.  Lips parted.  Heart beating against mine.</p>
<p>Something sharp jabs me.</p>
<p>"I'm sorry," she says, pushing herself off me.  She repositions the knife.  "Are you okay?"</p>
<p>There's no blood on my sweater.  The blade didn't even pierce the fabric.</p>
<p>"Yeah.  It just stung," I say.</p>
<p>She climbs to her feet.  I swipe my arms and legs back and forth in the snow.</p>
<p>“What are you doing?” she asks.</p>
<p>“Making a snow angel, to see if it actually looks like an angel.  Kindly deliver me unto my feet, milady.”</p>
<p>She pulls me up.  “That’s a good one.  No handprints or footprints,” she says.</p>
<p>“Eh.  Looks like a bug to me.”</p>
<p>“How?  You can very clearly see the head, the wings, the legs --”</p>
<p>“All of which a bug has.”</p>
<p>“Well, here.  I’ll show you.”  She kneels by the head and draws a halo above it, then two eyes and a smile.  “See?”</p>
<p>I see it, all right.  The angel.  The snow-whitened fields and hills and trees glimmering in the sunlight.  Snowball fights.  Claire.</p>
<p>I want it all.  To have this freedom.  To be happy.  To feel the things I’m feeling.</p>
<p>But should I want them?</p>
<p>Should I let myself want them?</p>
<p>Do I even have the right?</p>
<p>Her smile falls.  “What’s wrong?”</p>
<p>“What happens if I’m not Steve?  What if I am just some experimental BOW?”</p>
<p>She walks around the angel to me.  “Then you and your friend would still be free.”</p>
<p>“What about you?  How would you feel if I’m not Steve?”</p>
<p>Her blue eyes shine like sapphires in the winter sun.  She says, “If you weren’t Steve, I would be sad I didn’t find him.  But I’d also be proud of you for making such a brave choice.  And I’d be happy that you made it.”</p>
<p>
  <em> “Claire!” </em>
</p>
<p>Redfield is standing at the top of a nearby hill.  <em> “I found a house!” </em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Chapter 23</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 23</b>
</p>
<p>The house is one story, with a Christmas wreath on the door.  Rope and a blue tarp wrap a motorcycle under the carport.  Redfield bounds up the porch steps and holds the door for us. Fluorescent light streams through the broken window pane.</p>
<p>“Finally.  Somewhere with heating and electricity,” Claire says when we’re inside.</p>
<p>Envelopes, Christmas cards, and a newspaper cover the one-person table.  I pick up the newspaper.  The date on it is December 18, 2009.</p>
<p>I glance at the address.  “We're in Pennsylvania.”</p>
<p>“Chris, we need to call the BSAA," says Claire.</p>
<p>"On it."  Passing her the assault rifle, he grabs the cordless phone and dials a number.  "Jill? It's me, Chris…" </p>
<p>I follow Claire into the living room.  Setting the assault rifle beside the Christmas tree, she sinks into the nearby armchair and closes her eyes.</p>
<p>“You look tired," I say.</p>
<p>"Didn't get much sleep last night."</p>
<p>"I'm gonna look for the bathroom."</p>
<p>She doesn't respond.</p>
<p>I wander into the dark hall.  The first door is a closet.  The next leads to a flowery-wallpapered bedroom.  The last door is the bathroom.  I lock the door and pull out my phone.  I have one message:</p>
<p>
  <em> Thank God you’re okay!  I forwarded your message to Gaea.  They are talking with HCF about pursuing Mitchell and the rogues that took the contract.  Contact me when you get this! </em>
</p>
<p>My phone battery is at 15%.  I hit the call icon.  The call connects on the second ring.</p>
<p>“V-001?”</p>
<p>“Jesus, Trish, you have no idea how good it is to hear your voice.  I was worried they’d --”</p>
<p>“No.  Not yet, anyway.  Where are you?  I can barely make out what you’re saying.”</p>
<p>I lower the toilet lid and sit down.  "I’m in a bathroom.  They’re just outside.”</p>
<p>“Okay, then just listen.  Your mission has been updated.”</p>
<p>“Updated?”</p>
<p>“Yes.  You now have two targets.  Your original target, and Claire Redfield.”</p>
<p>“<em>What? </em>  Why?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know.  I was just told to tell you whenever you contacted me.  We need you to take them both out and give us your exact address.  Our tracer shows the town you're in, but not much else.”</p>
<p>“Fuck that.  Listen: Redfield and Claire offered us both protection.  We need to take it.  Where are you?  Are you still in the States?”</p>
<p>“We can’t do that.”</p>
<p>“The hell we can’t.  You tell me where you are right now, and I’ll make sure Redfield sends people after you.  He's on the phone with the BSAA right now."</p>
<p>“I...I can’t leave.”</p>
<p>“Yes, you <em> can</em>, Trish.  We keep feeding ourselves bullshit about how we can’t do it.  But <em> this </em> is all worth the risk.  Don’t you want to be free again, Trish?”</p>
<p>“They reiterated to me that I am accountable for you.  And if you don't complete your mission, they’ll hold me responsible and declare you defective.  You understand what that means.”</p>
<p>“This is bullshit.  <em> Bullshit</em>.  Neither of them did anything.  Claire didn’t do --”</p>
<p>“I know how you feel about her," Trish whispers.  "I’m not stupid.  I know what it’s like to care for someone I can't have.  But it's them or us.  So please, I beg of you: tell me where you are, and then end this.”</p>
<p>My throat burns.  I rub the welling tears out of my eyes.  “Please let me spare Claire.”</p>
<p>Something covers the phone.  Trish is talking with a man. He chuckles.</p>
<p>She uncovers the phone.  “Your request is denied.”</p>
<p>I swallow the burning.  I blink away the tears, and nod.  I give her the address.</p>
<p>She clears her throat.  “Got it.  We'll talk soon, V-001.”</p>
<p>“See you soon, Trish.”</p>
<p>I disconnect the call.</p>
<p>Three percent left.  A fuck ton it matters.</p>
<p>Letting the phone drop, I bury my face in my hands.  I was so <em> stupid  </em>for wanting all those things -- for thinking things could ever be different.  I should’ve just accepted them the way they were and gotten on with them.  If I had, Claire would get to live.</p>
<p>I kick the wall.  The plaster cracks.</p>
<p>Someone knocks on the door.  “Are you okay, Snake?  It sounded like something fell."</p>
<p>It’s Claire.</p>
<p>“Hit my elbow,” I say.</p>
<p>“Oh, okay.  Listen, Chris is still in the kitchen talking.  I'm going to lie down in the bedroom where it's quieter."</p>
<p>She walks away from the door.</p>
<p>My heart races.  I can feel hers beating against mine while we were lying in the snow together.  A phantom heartbeat.  Non-existent. Just like hers will soon be.</p>
<p>Flipping the lid, I dry-heave what’s left of the sausage and beans.  Flush.  Rinse out my mouth, then take a sip.  I have to focus.  I have to do this.  For Trish’s sake, and for mine.</p>
<p>Quietly, I head to the bedroom.  Claire lies on the bed, a flowery blanket covering her.  Her breaths are deep and slow.  Her face is peaceful. Trusting. </p>
<p>I pad to the living room and pick up the assault rifle.  Redfield is still talking in the kitchen.  He's the tougher sibling, but I can't stand the idea of seeing Claire's face when she realizes what I really am.  </p>
<p>I go back to the bedroom.  Check the clip.  Count twenty shells.  Take aim at her head.  Bite the inside of my cheek to stop from crying.</p>
<p>One quick, painless shot.  That's the best I can do for her.</p>
<p>But she deserves better.</p>
<p>I breathe in, breathe out.  Try to whisper, "I'm sorry."  My voice cracks, so I shut up.</p>
<p>One.</p>
<p>Two.</p>
<p>...</p>
<p>One.</p>
<p>Two.</p>
<p>…</p>
<p>
  <em> One. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Two. </em>
</p>
<p>…</p>
<p>God dammit.  <em> God dammit. </em></p>
<p>I lower the assault rifle.  Close my eyes.  Inhale, exhale.  Open them.  Retrain the gun.  Lower it again.</p>
<p>I can’t.  I just can’t --</p>
<p>Redfield tackles me into the doorframe.  The gun blasts the dresser.  Claire snaps awake.  His hands grip the gun, pinning me with it.</p>
<p><em> “Give it to me!” </em> he screams.</p>
<p>I knee him in the dick.  He doubles over, moaning.  I twist the gun out of his hands and train it on him.  He puts his hands in the air.  Dropping the knife, Claire puts her own hands in the air.</p>
<p>“So <em> this </em> is how you show gratitude: by putting us down like dogs," says Redfield.</p>
<p>“I <em> have </em> to.  Or they’ll kill her.  What would you do if it was her?” I nod at Claire.</p>
<p>“I’d find a way that didn’t involve gunning down innocent people," he says.</p>
<p>“There <em> is </em> no other way -- ”</p>
<p>“Yes, there <em> is</em>.”  Tears stream down Claire’s face.  “Please, Snake, don’t do this.”</p>
<p>Tears stream down my face, too.  “There isn’t.  Claire, I’m so sorry.”</p>
<p>My finger shakes on the trigger.  I breathe in.  Breathe out.  Swallow.  Count to three. Only make it to two.</p>
<p>“You’re making a mistake,” she says.  “And you know it.”</p>
<p>I release the trigger --</p>
<p>A tremor rocks the house.  The wall behind me explodes.  Dr. Cabot stands in its place, the bladed tentacles swimming around him like eels.  One tentacle knocks the assault rifle from my hands.  Another whips me into the wall and pins me.  Dr. Cabot walks to me, the floorboards aching beneath each footstep.  He stares at me with blank eyes as pearly as his fangs. </p>
<p>I yank at the tentacle.  “Please. Please, Dr. Cabot.”</p>
<p>With one hand, he takes me by the sweater collar and hoists me in the air.  I tear at his fingers, but they're locked in place.  He turns to Claire and Redfield.  They run for the window, but two tentacles grab them. They hit the floor face-first.</p>
<p>Wheeling, Dr. Cabot steps through the splintered passage where the bathroom used to be.  Water from the busted toilet and sink floods the floor. He drags Redfield and Claire as they kick and stomp at the tentacles.  Redfield grabs a speared wooden rod and stabs the tentacle ensnaring him.  Red stains the water.  Growling, Dr. Cabot whips Redfield against the broken porcelain.  He lies limp, eyes shut.</p>
<p><em> “Chris!”  </em>Claire shrieks, reaching for him.</p>
<p>They slide onto the snow. The spear drifts from Redfield’s hand.  Rolling, Claire goes for the spear.  Dr. Cabot snaps her sideways, sharp as a sucker punch.</p>
<p>A whirring sound echoes in the distance.  Dr. Cabot takes us to the front yard, where the land is bare and flat and stretches wide like a field.  He stands as still as a statue.  Claire crawls to Redfield, pushes him on his back, and checks his head.  I kick at Dr. Cabot's heart.  I strike his ribs instead. He sticks a blade to my heart and presses until I wail.</p>
<p>The whirring sound grows louder.  Wind whips our hair and clothes.  The chopper -- another black, double-rotor model with “HCF” on the flank -- appears over the house.  The chopper lands twenty feet away.  The door slides open, and two armed mercs jump into the snow.  They stand on either side of the door as another armed merc climbs out alongside Dick.</p>
<p>He grins.  “Well, well, well.  Look what we have here.  Our elusive BOW, and the two targets he was supposed to kill.”</p>
<p><em> “What?”  </em>I rasp.</p>
<p>“It wishes to speak.  Very well.”  Dick waves his hand.</p>
<p>Dr. Cabot drops me.  Cupping my heart, I climb to my knees.  Two tentacles slither around me, bracing me in place.</p>
<p>“How do you know about that?” I say.</p>
<p>Dick’s grin widens.  “For an intelligent BOW, you are quite slow.  Doctor?  Doctor, would you kindly come out?  V-001 -- I mean, <em> Snake </em>is asking for you.”</p>
<p>A merc marches someone out of the chopper.  My heart stops.</p>
<p>
  <em> “Trish?” </em>
</p>
<p>The merc halts her when they reach Dick.  She wrenches her arm out of the merc’s hand.</p>
<p>“What the <em> fuck </em>, Trish?” I say.</p>
<p>She looks at the ground.  “I’m so sorry."</p>
<p>“‘Trish’ is not entirely to blame.  When I picked her up in New Jersey, I threatened her life if she didn’t assist me in reacquiring you.  A survivalist, like all Gaea employees who manage to live."</p>
<p>His gaze moves to Claire and Redfield.  Dick and the merc start toward them.  Claire scoots so she’s between him and Redfield, her fist raised.  The merc trains his gun on her.</p>
<p>Dick squats near her.  “He’s still breathing, I see.  You know, it's tragic that you've become involved in this, Claire.  They only wanted your brother dead.  Had you stayed home, you would've lived."</p>
<p>"Come a little closer, and we'll see who lives," she says.</p>
<p>Dick laughs.  "I can see why it has taken a liking to you.  Much like Patricia here, you possess a strong will to survive.  I was planning on killing both you and your brother for all of the trouble you’ve caused me.  I suppose I'm not unlike the monsters at Gaea in that respect -- the human ones, I mean.  But the chance to see Chris Redfield <em> and </em> Claire Redfield, the two most troublesome siblings for the biohazard black market, and choose whether they die or 'assist' our experiments...no one in Gaea's circle could resist.  So for now, I’ll let you both live.” Standing, he turns to the merc.  “Take them to the chopper.”</p>
<p>The merc calls into his wrist comm for two teams.  Four mercs jump out of the chopper and head for us.</p>
<p>To Trish, Dick says, “Once they’re onboard, give them a sedative.  A long-lasting one. Then call Gaea's headquarters.  Tell them you and V-001 are on your way back as planned and that you'll be returning via an alternative method.  Tell them V-001 managed to capture the Redfield siblings and all who attend are invited to decide their fate.  Tell them that Conrad and Leila should invite as many investors as they feel.  In fact, they should bring the whole mainland staff."</p>
<p>”Yes, Dr. Mitchell."</p>
<p>Two mercs grab Redfield while the other two grab Claire, kicking and thrashing, and drag them to the chopper.</p>
<p>Dick turns to me.  “As for you, V-001 -- <em> ‘Snake’ </em> -- I’m afraid you’ve reached the end of the line.”</p>
<p>He raises a hand.  The tentacles hoist me high.   The remaining tentacles wrap my feet.</p>
<p>“Captain?”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir?”</p>
<p>“Your knife, please.”</p>
<p>The merc hands him a large combat knife.  Dick slashes open my sweater from waist to collar.  He traces my scars and the knotted, pulsing skin with the knife’s tip.</p>
<p>"You look scared," he says.  "Let's see if your unnatural heart allows you that small bit of humanity."</p>
<p>He inserts the blade into the bullet hole.  I scream as he saws and rips off the skin. Blood dribbles down me.  My heart thumps wildly like a fleshy, red drum.</p>
<p>Laughing, Dick tosses my skin like a Frisbee. "Captain, tell your men to bring out one of the coolers.  A big one."</p>
<p>"But sir, the capsule --"</p>
<p>"If you want to get paid, then <em> do it</em>."  To me, he says, "I was going to wait until you returned to do this, but after the additional trouble you caused me these past few days, I simply can't wait.”</p>
<p>“Go fuck yourself," I growl.</p>
<p>Gritting his teeth, he draws back the knife.  </p>
<p>
  <em> “No!” </em>
</p>
<p>Trish jumps between us.  She holds up her hands.  Dick grabs her arm and yanks her away from me.  </p>
<p>He presses the blade to her neck.  “Until I’m done, I will need your assistance.  But I swear to you, if you cross me again --”</p>
<p>“H-hear me out,” she says.  “You don’t want to do this here.  HCF's choppers aren't designed to power its capsule --”  Her eyes flick to Dr. Cabot, "<em> and </em> their back-up coolers.  If you take his organs now --”</p>
<p>“They’re <em> not </em> its organs!”</p>
<p>“Right, sorry, Dr. Mitchell.  If you take the organs now, there's a good chance the power will malfunction.  If it does, the organs’ll start to decay before you’ve had a chance to, uh, commemorate them for <em> her</em>.  I mean, it is a ten-hour flight to Coeus from here.  Then there's the demonstration to worry about.”</p>
<p>Dick releases her arm.  He keeps the knife pointed at her.  “You’ve made your point.  But bear in mind, you will toe the line and toe it finely or you will be joining this thing in the afterlife.  Understand?”</p>
<p>“I understand, sir.”</p>
<p>A merc arrives with a big plastic tub.</p>
<p>“I no longer have need for that.”  To the captain, Dick says, “Round up your men.  We’re headed back to Coeus.”</p>
<p>He waves Dr. Cabot to the chopper.  Keeping me drawn in front of him, Dr. Cabot walks to the chopper and climbs in.  The mercs sit along the two walls.  Assault rifles rest on their knees, their fingers on the trigger.  At the back of the chopper stands a giant, empty capsule that stretches from floor to ceiling. Claire is sitting on the floor beside the capsule.  Her hands are cuffed to an equipment stand above her.  Redfield rests at her feet, his hands cuffed to the bench base.  His eyes are still shut.</p>
<p>Dick, Trish, and the captain climb inside.  Trish grabs her bag from one of the benches.  Redfield stirs in his sleep.  She pulls out a tube of blue liquid and three syringes.  Two she sticks in her pocket. The other she uses to draw some of the blue liquid.  She kneels beside Redfield.</p>
<p>"Get away from him!" Claire says, kicking at Trish.</p>
<p>“It's just a sedative to keep him asleep,” says Trish.</p>
<p>“Captain?” Dick says.</p>
<p>The captain points at the nearest two mercs.  “Assist Dr. King.”</p>
<p>Claire tries to kick at them, but the bigger one grabs both of her feet.  She yells at Redfield, but Trish injects the blue liquid in his neck before he can even open his eyes.  He passes out cold. The smaller merc grabs Claire by her ponytail and forces her head to one side. He yanks down her turtleneck collar.  Trish kneels beside her.</p>
<p>“No!  Don’t!” Claire says.</p>
<p>“Sorry.  I have to.”</p>
<p>Trish inserts the second syringe into Claire’s neck and injects the blue liquid.  Claire’s eyes roll up, and she goes limp.</p>
<p>“Now the BOW.  A large dose to make it through the demonstration,” says Dick.</p>
<p>“Of course.”</p>
<p>Standing in front of me, she unpockets the third syringe and draws more liquid.</p>
<p>“I hope you enjoy your life, ‘Dr. King,’” I say.</p>
<p>Sticking the needle in my neck, she breathes, “Trust me.”</p>
<p>She injects the liquid --</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0025"><h2>25. Chapter 24</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 24</b>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Steve</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Claire</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>who did this to you<br/></em>
  <em>what’s wrong</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Claire<br/></em>
  <em>can’t<br/></em>
  <em>breathe<br/></em>
  <em>Claire</em><br/>
  <em>help me<br/></em>
  <em>Claire</em>
</p>
<p>Steve</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0026"><h2>26. Chapter 25</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 25</b>
</p>
<p>The chopper rocks hard.</p>
<p>I’m sitting beside Claire.  My hands dangle above me, cuffed to the same equipment stand.  Claire’s eyes are still rolled up. Redfield still lies motionless.  My heart thumps against my jacket, which is now zipped up.  Translucent frost webs across the capsule's glass panel.  Dr. Cabot stands frozen inside, a shadow suspended in time.</p>
<p>The mercs are all still seated along the walls.  Dick sits beside the captain.  Trish sits away from everyone, clutching her bag.  Above, the two rotors are still whirring, but the chopper itself isn't moving.  The pilot is talking to someone on his headset.</p>
<p>Trish looks at me.  She presses a finger to her lips, then points to her eyes and mouths, <em> “Close.” </em></p>
<p>I shut my eyes and let my head drop.  The pilot tells the captain they got clearance.  The captain orders the door open.  The heavy afternoon humidity and salty ocean smell flood the cabin.  Overhead, the rotors slow to a crawling spin.</p>
<p>“We’re all clear, sir,” the captain says.</p>
<p>"Patricia, ensure all of our guests are in the observation deck.  Then contact the managers for every division of Coeus Island.  Viral Research, BOW Research, Maintenance, Security, IT, Housekeeping, Meal Prep, the island clinic, all of them," says Dick.  "Tell BOW Research to gather in the demonstration room and the others to wait in the viral research lab's main storage room.  Tell Security to send two armed men to the demonstration room.  Then meet me there."</p>
<p>"Yes, sir."</p>
<p>Trish’s boots tap across the chopper floor.  She climbs out.</p>
<p>Dick says, “Captain, escort the two humans to the demonstration room.  If they aren't awake by the time you reach it, wake them.  Wait for the two guards.  Then return to the chopper to await further instruction.”</p>
<p>“Yes, sir.”</p>
<p>Boots clump to us.  Handcuffs jingle, unsnap.  The mercs drag Claire and Redfield away, shoes scuffing the floor.  Dick walks to the capsule.  He hits a few buttons on the control panel.  The vents hiss and release cold air that bites my skin.  The glass panel slides open.</p>
<p>“Wake up, you abomination. We have little time,” says Dick.</p>
<p>Dr. Cabot takes two heavy steps out of the capsule.  A blade strikes the stand.  As the pieces topple over me, my hands fall free.  A tentacle slithers around me and lifts me high.  Dick leads us into a large space that echoes the crashing of ocean waves.  I chance a peek.  We're in Coeus's hangar, which is now filled with choppers, private jets, and supply stacks.</p>
<p>We enter the elevator Trish and I took just a few mornings ago.  Dick presses a button.  The elevator sinks.  My ears pop.  The elevator dings once before the doors roll open.  We're on Sub-Level 1, the floor with the wide, glass windows that show the dimly lit sea around us. The observation deck doors are shut.  Voices, light and merry, and jolly Christmas music leak through the heavy wood.  It sounds like a party.</p>
<p>Dick points at the card scanner.  Dr. Cabot inserts a blade and rips the scanner out.</p>
<p>We make our way down the curved hallway.  Dick stops at one porthole and looks into the demonstration room.  He chuckles.  We hang a left at the end of the hallway.  Dick looks between the sub-level elevator and the stairwell beside it.  We pack inside the elevator. It stops at Sub-Level 2.  We cross the empty, white-walled lab to the surgical bay.  Dick scans his ID card.  The door slides open.  I close my eyes.</p>
<p>Dr. Cabot lays me on a metal gurney.  Dick cuffs my wrists and ankles to the four corners and belts me down.  He wheels a tray beside the gurney.  Opening the drawer, he sets tools on the metal tray.  I know them by the <em> clinks </em> they make: pliers, a scalpel, scissors, and a bone saw.  He digs something out of his jacket pocket and places it on the tray.  A lighter snaps.  A flame sizzles. He flicks the lighter shut.</p>
<p>The door opens.  Dick and Dr. Cabot leave.  The door closes and locks.</p>
<p>I open my eyes.  Darkness fogs the surgical bay.  The only light comes from a burning candle. Beside it stands a framed photo of a woman about Trish or Claire's age.  The woman wears her blond hair in a bob. Her light blue eyes and red lipstick accent the anger in her expression.</p>
<p>The blades gleam like gold in the candlelight.</p>
<p>Someone beats on the door.  <em> “Snake?” </em></p>
<p>
  <em> “Trish!  I’m in here!” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Thank God.  Listen, the card reader is busted.  I'm going to find something to open the door.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Hurry!” </em>
</p>
<p>I thrash against the leather cuffs -- thrash and yank and wrench so hard it chafes my wrists and ankles.  Something slushes against the door.  The metal frame fizzles.  The door swings open.  Trish steps over the steaming puddle, a half-eaten broomstick in one hand.  Tossing the broomstick, she rushes to me and undoes one wrist cuff. I go for the other one and the belt while she gets my ankle cuffs.  When I’m standing, she throws her arms around me.</p>
<p>“Jesus, I’m glad you’re okay.  I'm so sorry, Snake.  Dick threatened to kill me if I didn't do what he said.  I didn't know what else to do -- I thought if I went along with it, I could at least find you --"</p>
<p>"We'll talk about it later.  Let's get out of here first."</p>
<p>"Be careful: it's hydrochloric acid," she says, leading me over the dissolving floor.</p>
<p>We run to the sub-level elevator.  Trish bursts open the stairwell door and starts upstairs.</p>
<p>"Wait, Claire and her brother --"</p>
<p>"We don't have time.  We need to get to HCF so we can get the hell off this island before Dick does what he's planning."</p>
<p>"I'm not leaving without them, Trish.  They're in this mess because they saved me."</p>
<p>"And <em> I </em> didn't?  You don't even <em> know </em> them.  They aren't worth risking your life <em> or </em> mine!"</p>
<p>"Then leave without me."  I bound down the stairs.</p>
<p>"<em>Snake! </em>"  Trish stands on the top step.  She tosses me her ID card. "Ten minutes.  Got it?"</p>
<p>"Got it." I race down the next flight.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0027"><h2>27. Chapter 26</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 26</b>
</p>
<p>I throw open the Sub-Level 3 door.  The only time this lab is ever this dark or empty is at night, when the researchers go to their dorm.  I run until I can make out the red light on my cell's card scanner.  I cut right.  Sleepy light drifts through the portholes.  I skid to the nearest one.</p>
<p>Sunlight pierces the 50 or so feet of ocean over the demonstration room's glass dome.  A long strip of glass -- the observation deck's window -- wraps one side just under the dome.  Figures move like shadows behind the glass. The 20-something BOW Research members are gathered near the door.  In the center of the room, the two guards hold Redfield and Claire at gunpoint.</p>
<p>I start for the door.  Distant, heavy footsteps send me backpedaling to the nearest room: the BOW containment area.  The place they kept me before Trish convinced Dr. Cabot to give me a cell away from here.  Green and red BOWs pace in small, dimly-lit cells behind glass panels.  Hunters, big, scaly bipeds with razor-sharp fangs and claws. Skinless Lickers with their brains growing out of their crowns, long tongues like spear-ended whips.  When the BOWs see me, some hiss and slash at the glass.  Others growl, including the Licker in my old cell.</p>
<p>I take cover behind some boxes near the freezer.  The scent of frozen blood mingles with the sour reptile smell.  Dick and Dr. Cabot fill the glass door frame. Blood stripes them like tigers.  Dick scans his card.  The demonstration room doors slide apart.  They enter, silhouetted black by the ocean-filtered light.  The doors slide shut.  </p>
<p>I pad to the far wall control console.  One of the guards kept a gun and some shells here somewhere.  I rip open compartments until gun metal glints white in the fluorescent light.  A magnum, complete with a box of shells.  Chambering six, I cram the rest into my jacket pocket.</p>
<p>I scan open the door and sneak to the nearest porthole.  Dick and Dr. Cabot step toward the observation deck.  The researchers part and back against the circular wall.  Claire and Redfield's guards stare, jaws dropped.  A woman's voice, amplified by the intercom system, reverberates through the glass.</p>
<p><em> “Answer us now, Richard!  Where is the V prototype?  And why are you and that thing covered in blood?” </em>she says.</p>
<p>Dick waves his hand.  A bladed tentacle shoots into the card reader, smashing it.  People scream.  He points to the wall.  Another tentacle whips a mic off the intercom box.  The tentacle hands the mic to Dick.</p>
<p>He raises it.  <em> "Testing one, two, three.  Can everyone hear me?"  </em></p>
<p><em> "Stop screwing around, Richard!" </em> booms a man's voice.  <em> "You have exactly five seconds to explain, and it had better be damned good or so help me, I'll --" </em></p>
<p>
  <em> "You'll what, Director Steele?  In case none of you have noticed, the phones and Internet are down.  The door to escape is sealed, and anyone who could open it is dead." </em>
</p>
<p>The researchers crowd the door and beat on it.  The pounding and their shrieks echo through the corridor.  </p>
<p><em> "You open this door this instant!" </em> yells Conrad Steele.  </p>
<p>
  <em> "Do you remember when you gave Martin clearance to buy the T-Veronica virus sample that HCF was peddling?  You'd heard how volatile the virus was -- about how it had led to the Ashfords' ruin and the decimation of Umbrella's Antarctic facility.  But the power to control BOWs...that interested you and the board and the investors too greatly to pass the opportunity." </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> "Richard --" </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> "In fact, that's what led to my employment here.  Your choir boy Martin, who'd become so adept at replicating Umbrella's monsters which sold so well at a fraction of the cost that Umbrella charged, needed a grafting specialist.  So he reached out to me, his old grad school buddy.  He tricked me.  And worse, he let me drag my wife with me into this hell." </em>
</p>
<p><em> "We have been over this, Richard,"  </em>the woman says.  "<em>Your wife planned to expose us.  You know how we struggle to find usable human test subjects.  Martin did the most pragmatic thing." </em></p>
<p>Dick laughs.  <em>'Pragmatic,' Madam Executive Officer?  That bastard murdered my wife -- he cut out her organs while she was still alive and then dumped her ashes like she was garbage, all so he could keep pouring resources into his science project, a monster that has no remarkable abilities besides moderately paced regeneration!  That needs constant conditioning because it retains its human physique and autonomy!  It passively and actively fights its orders!  You didn't just kill her, Leila -- you killed her for </em> nothing<em>!  But Martin didn't die for nothing, did you</em>, <em> Marty? </em></p>
<p>Dick waves his hand.  Dr. Cabot steps forward and stares at the observation deck.  Frightened whispers sizzle like electricity.</p>
<p><em> "Dear God, Richard,"  </em>Leila Coates says.  <em> "What have you done?" </em></p>
<p>
  <em> "I did what Marty could not in the whole ten years he spent on Project V: I tamed the T-Veronica virus!" </em>
</p>
<p>Dick clenches his fist.  Dr. Cabot shrieks and seizes, falling to his knees.  His skin melts and browns into a scabby husk.  His arms and legs twist into bladed limbs. The four tentacles harden and strike their blades against the floor.  Mid-shriek, his face splits in half.  Four red eyes pop out.  A fang-filled mouth opens between his broken jaws and screeches.  </p>
<p>
  <em> "Marty focused so much on the T-Veronica virus that he forgot about the other viruses and parasites that cretins like you brought into the world.  All it took was a Type-2 Plaga fused with raw T-Veronica. When the Plaga bonds with a host's nervous system, that host can control anything infected with the same raw strain of Veronica.  It was such a simple solution I'm embarrassed that it took me a decade to think of it.  For a good rate, HCF was more than happy to obtain a Plaga sample.  After I got it, the only thing left was framing Marty.  No one on the Viral Research team questioned me when I froze him and told them he was reserved for an upcoming project.  Then last week, I got the break-through in my rodent trials that I needed to justify this." </em>
</p>
<p>Dick pulls off the bandage.  Half of his head is clean-shaven and purple with bruising.  Black stitches snake in a circle around his temple.</p>
<p><em> "Merry early Christmas to me," </em> he says.</p>
<p><em> "You're insane, Richard," </em> says Steele.</p>
<p><em> "I might be insane, but at least I know what I am, unlike you disgusting mongrels who sit on high and play your black market games as though you're worth more than the sacks of flesh you are."   </em>Dick rounds on the researchers.  <em> "And you -- you let them.  My wife was right when she called me a pathetic coward.  I was a pathetic coward, just like you. You all disgust me." </em></p>
<p>Dick brings down his arm.  A bladed limb slashes the two guards.  They topple apart in bloody pieces.  Dick points at the researchers.  They scatter.  Dropping to its haunches, the spider monster leaps into a group of people.  It rams the wall, smashing them.  Blood and flattened flesh hit the floor.  Cracks web across the cement.  The spider thing pivots. The rest of the researchers run, screaming. The monster swings its legs sword-like.  Bodies collapse in gutty pieces.  Blood seeps under the door.  The screams cease.</p>
<p>Dick points at the observation deck.  The thing that was Dr. Cabot launches itself across the room.  Puncturing the wall with its blades, it climbs to the glass strip. It smashes the glass and crawls inside.  Dark figures run.  More people scream.  Dr. Cabot slashes, slices, and dices, and they fall apart.  </p>
<p>Dr. Cabot crawls out, his front half folded upward.  In his front four legs, he clenches an old, blood-spattered man.  Dr. Cabot jumps onto the floor and scuttles to Dick.</p>
<p>He tosses the mic.  <em> “You dedicated your life to creating monsters, and now you lose your life to one.” </em></p>
<p><em> “I will not be intimidated by the likes of you,” </em> says Steele.</p>
<p><em> “I don’t want to intimidate you -- just kill you.” </em> </p>
<p>Dick clenches his hand in a tight fist.  The four legs tighten, cutting the old man into big, meaty pieces.  They fall in a pile.</p>
<p>Silence fills the room.  Dick inhales deeply, then turns to Claire and Redfield.  They’re backed into the wall, aiming the guards’ handguns at Dr. Cabot.</p>
<p>
  <em> “Key players dead, a whole bio-warfare operation destroyed -- all in the blink of an eye.  An effort that would rival even one of your exploits, Chris.” </em>
</p>
<p> "<em>I’d never murder a whole facility full of people,” </em>Redfield yells.</p>
<p>
  <em> “Perhaps that’s why you’ve gained so little headway in the fight against bioterrorism.  You refuse to fight fire with fire.  Unfortunately, you didn't heed my warnings.  Now you won't have the chance.  Neither of you will.” </em>
</p>
<p>Smiling, Dick curls his finger.Dr. Cabot raises one blade.  The limb stretches until the blade touches Claire's gun and pushes the barrel aside.  </p>
<p>I blast the window.  The glass shatters on the second shot.  I shove the magnum through the porthole and fire again.  Spinning, Dr. Cabot runs into the doors.  They shutter and bend outward.  Blades tear at the metal like tissue.</p>
<p>Scanning open the containment area door, I dash to the control console.  I spin every dial. All of the cell panels slide open.  Dr. Cabot bursts through the door.  Howling, the Hunters and Lickers jump on him.  They rip into him, tearing his flesh with their teeth and claws.  Dr. Cabot shrieks and flails into the cells.  I race into the hallway.  Redfield and Claire are standing in the dark blood pool.</p>
<p><em> “Run!” </em>I yell.</p>
<p>I lead them to Sub-Level 1.  Blood has seeped under the observation deck doors and stained the blue carpet black.  When we reach the elevator, we take the stairs.  I shove open the hangar door.  HCF’s chopper is still here, the rotors already spinning.  The private jets and planes lie in shredded scrap heaps.  Trish and the captain stand near the flank. She runs to meet us.</p>
<p>“They can take us to Lima.  That’s where their next job is,” she says to me.</p>
<p>“As long as it isn’t here.”</p>
<p>I start after Trish, but Claire grabs my arm.</p>
<p>“Can we trust her?” she says.</p>
<p>The stairwell door blows apart.  Six big, red eyes and clicking pincers emerge.  A long body carried by dozens of bladed legs follows.  The tiny jaw drops, and the centipede creature shrieks.</p>
<p>The captain yells, “<em> Shit, fire!”  </em></p>
<p>The mercs rush forward and blast the monster.  Screeching again, Dr. Cabot charges the chopper.  Trish grabs me and runs as Redfield and Claire tail us.  Screams and gunfire reverberate through the hangar. </p>
<p>Trish leads us to a guardrail.  Black storm clouds veil the setting sun.  Below, waves crash against the rocky cliffside.  We follow the guardrail up a long flight of steps and through a wrought iron gate.  A gray-stoned building looms over us, its windows like black eyes.  In front of the building, a tropical garden grows lush and colorful.   A cobblestone path winds through the garden, lit by decorative hanging globes and white Christmas lights.  Thunder claps, hard as a punch.</p>
<p>Claire, Redfield, and I follow Trish to a courtyard.  Stone benches circle a burbling fountain and marble-etched visitor’s map.</p>
<p>“Where exactly are we going?” Claire asks.</p>
<p>Trish checks her phone and then steps onto a bench and peers over the courtyard wall.  “<em>Shit </em>.”</p>
<p>“What’s wrong?” I ask.</p>
<p>“He trashed the comm tower.  The comm tower is gone.  We have no phone lines, no Internet, no way off the island.”  Sinking onto the bench, she buries her face in one hand.  “Essentially we’re screwed.  He’s going to hunt us until he catches us or we die of dehydration and hunger.  And given how small the island is, the former is the more likely of the two.”</p>
<p>"He can't catch us as long as we keep moving," says Redfield.</p>
<p>She marches to the map.  “You see this handful of buildings?  These few gardens? This bridge? The beach?  This giant guest house here? It’ll take him <em> maybe </em> 24 hours to level all of that.”</p>
<p>Claire touches the marble.  She traces the numbers listed beside the map grid.  “Chris, look at the layout -- the coordinates --”</p>
<p>“Holy <em> shit</em>,” he says.  </p>
<p>“We’re in the South Pacific.  Near Rockfort Island,” I say.</p>
<p>“We’re not <em> near </em> Rockfort Island,” she says.  Lighting splits the dark sky. “We’re <em> on </em> it.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0028"><h2>28. Chapter 27</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 27</b>
</p>
<p>The first raindrops dot the cobblestone, cold and prickling.  Just as I imagined the start of a hard heat storm would feel.</p>
<p>“I always wondered what happened to it,” says Claire.</p>
<p>“Intel said it burned to the ground.  Gaea must have secured it after Umbrella abandoned it,” Redfield says.  “Well, good.  This’ll make searching easier.  The old training facility is a ways away from the underwater lab.  Let’s try there first. ”</p>
<p>“Good idea,” Claire says.</p>
<p>Trish climbs the guest house steps.  “That sounds fun.  Enjoy getting yourselves killed.”</p>
<p>“Come on, Trish,” I say.  “You know this island better than anyone --”</p>
<p>“What I <em> know </em>, Snake, is that if you’d left them like I said, we’d both be safe.  But you didn’t, so now we’re going to die.”</p>
<p>"Trish --"</p>
<p>"If she wants to stay, then let her.  We can manage without her," says Claire. </p>
<p>"I'm not just leaving her here," I say.  “Trish, please.  Come with us.”</p>
<p>Grabbing the lanyard cord, she yanks her ID card out of my hand.  “She’s right: you don’t need me.  Not when you have <em> her.</em>”  She disappears into the guest house.</p>
<p>The rain strikes me hard, fast, and cold.  Lightning flashes crooked and disjointed, like gnarled fingers ripping apart the sky.</p>
<p>“We’d better get moving before Mitchell and Cabot finish the HCF,” says Redfield.</p>
<p>I stare at the Christmas wreath hanging on the door.  “I'll catch up to you later.”</p>
<p>"But…" Claire says.</p>
<p>Redfield touches her arm.  She looks at me, then she and Redfield take off down the cobblestone path.  I enter the guest house.  A tall Christmas tree stands behind the lobby's ornate mahogany desk, casting golden light across the marble tiles and stone pillars.  Red-carpeted steps, framed by a garland-wrapped banister, climb to the second floor.</p>
<p>Boots click behind the far pillar.  I follow them to a mahogany door. It opens to a marble-tiled hallway, accented by green wallpaper.  The hallway ends at another door and a space with an elevator and stairwell.  A small Christmas tree, wound in red ribbon, stands in the corner.</p>
<p>Light footsteps pad behind the door.  Women's boots on carpet. There's a card scanner beside the door.</p>
<p>I knock.  "Trish?"</p>
<p>The door opens.  She stands in the doorway, a flashlight in hand.  Her eyes are puffy and pink.</p>
<p>"Where are they?" she asks.</p>
<p>"They went on ahead."</p>
<p>"You dared leave her side?  What a shock."</p>
<p>"'I almost killed them both to save you!"</p>
<p>"And then you condemned yourself <em> and </em> me to die here with them -- after everything we've been through.  After I risked <em> my life </em> to save you.  You've killed us both for some girl you just met."</p>
<p>"Because she makes me feel like I'm more than some monster that was created to kill!"</p>
<p>"To me, you <em> are </em> more!"</p>
<p>"Then why are you so deadset against me <em> being </em> more?"</p>
<p>Sadness shadows her face.  "Because I don't want you to get hurt like I was."</p>
<p>"<em>What? </em>"</p>
<p>She pushes open the door.  The dark storage room is lined with old, blue carpet.  Shelves built into the walls stock pillows, bed sheets, toilet paper, canned food, walkie talkies, flashlights, gardening tools, and more.  She leads me to an alcove, where the air feels hot and stuffy for some reason.  It makes me feel sick.  I hang by the opening while she sits on a musty couch shoved inside.</p>
<p>"It was Christmastime one year when I was in college," she says. "I tracked down my birth parents.  I wanted to feel like I belonged somewhere, I guess.  They were both married to other people.  No kids besides me.  I was just some mistake they made in high school.  They never even named me.  Patricia King is what the nuns decided to call me since it was the name of some old woman who donated a lot to the orphanage.  My parents didn't want anything to do with me.</p>
<p>"By the time I got here, you'd become one with the virus.  Dr. Cabot was just waiting for you to wake up.  When you did, he told us not to tell you where you came from because it might ruin the project.  You might...you might regain your memories."</p>
<p>Thunder cracks.  My heart hammers so hard it hurts.  I grip the alcove corner.</p>
<p>"All those times we were together by ourselves...you knew and you never said <em> anything</em>," I say.  "I almost killed Claire and her brother to protect you because I thought we were -- were <em> friends </em> --"</p>
<p>"We <em> are </em> friends --"</p>
<p>"And the whole time she was telling me the truth while you...you were <em> lying </em>to me."</p>
<p>"Because I didn't want either of us to die!  And because...because I thought you were lucky you didn't know."</p>
<p>My throat burns.  All of me burns.  I back away until I bump into a folded table.  A voice whispers, soft and distant like splashes echoing within a deep well:</p>
<p>
  <em> That was too close.  Thanks for the help.  Check out these bad boys.  They look cool, huh? </em>
</p>
<p><em> My </em>voice.</p>
<p>Trish's cheeks glisten in the faint light.  "I'm so sorry, Snake. I didn't know what else to do."</p>
<p>"Who am I, Trish?  Am I Steve?  Steve Burnside?"</p>
<p>She doesn't answer.</p>
<p>Without so much as glancing at her, I turn on one of the flashlights.  A faint beam illuminates the shelf. I take a pair of bolt cutters and snap off the metal cuffs.  They drop to the floor. The first three walkie talkies I grab all garble static.  Hooking them to my belt, I open the door.  The fluorescent light blinds me.  I start down the hallway.</p>
<p>"<em>Snake! </em>" </p>
<p>Trish stands in the doorway, the door half blocking her.</p>
<p>"There's a security room in the Viral Research lab, with rows of monitors.  You can use them to see the whole island."  She points at the stairwell.  "Take those down to the hangar.  You'll see a big shutter -- that's the transport tunnel.  It leads to the lab's loading dock.  Then take the stairs to the second floor, past the break room, across the balcony.  Look for the louvered door."  She pulls off her ID card and holds it out to me.  "Here. You'll need this to get into the tunnel and loading dock."</p>
<p>I take the card.  "This isn't me forgiving you."</p>
<p>"I know."</p>
<p>Looping the cord around my neck, I head for the stairwell.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>The hangar's light streams through the giant hole where the stairwell door used to be.  I climb down the rubble.  Bullet holes pockmark the wall.  The chopper and mercs lie in smoking, sliced bits.  Blood splashes the cement floor like a nouveau art painting.  The smell of gore and burning rubber hangs so heavy I can taste it.  </p>
<p>So this is what it's like to stand over dead people: so surreal you almost don't believe it's happening.</p>
<p>Two pairs of red footprints head toward the guardrail.  Loafers and big, bare feet.  Scanning open the shutter, I dash through the tunnel.  Shipping containers and empty cages cramp the loading dock.  I race up the stairs to the catwalk's lone door.  It's locked.  No card reader -- just a standard metal key lock.  I pull out Gaea's credit card, still undamaged except for the one corner, and jam it inside the bolt.  The card snaps in half. The hotel card cracks and then snaps. I toss them and lean over the guardrail.  The containers hold glass flasks, lab goggles, and the like.  No acid anywhere.  A door peeks behind one pallet, hidden by the shadows.  </p>
<p>I scan Trish's card.  The door opens.  I step onto hollow metal.  It's a platform for moving big things between floors.  The turntable control panel light shines red.  I take hold of the inserted key.  The rain hammers against the roof, filling the shaft with the sound of --</p>
<p><em> Gunfire and shattering glass</em>.  I can hear them but the magnum is holstered, and the lab gear remains untouched.  My voice whispers again:</p>
<p>
  <em> Don’t worry, Claire.  Your knight in shining armor is here! </em>
</p>
<p><em> You wish.  But thanks for your help, </em>Claire's voice answers.</p>
<p>I turn the key and press the B1 button because something urges me to go down.  Cranking loudly, the platform sinks into the shaft.  It grounds to a halt at a door.  I open it and step off the platform.  More shipping containers surround me.  The feeling that dragged me down here pulls me to a door across the small room -- a door I couldn't even see because a pallet covered it.</p>
<p>Dim, yellow light illuminates the dark brick walls and steps.  Turning on the flashlight, I descend them.  A giant steam boiler growls in one corner.  Bars barricade the entrance to a corridor.  More brick steps lead to another door.  It opens to more darkness and the sound of water raging ceaselessly. </p>
<p><em> Steve, what happened to you on this island?  </em>Claire's voice asks.<em> Who brought you here, and where is your family? </em></p>
<p><em> I don’t want to talk about it.  Got it? </em>my voice answers.</p>
<p>A grated catwalk leads across the gray-stoned cavern.  A waterfall churns beneath the catwalk, plummeting to a waterway that rushes into the pitch black.  As loud as the rushing is, it can't wash out the gunfire.</p>
<p>Then my voice says, <em> Let’s get going. </em></p>
<p>The catwalk ends at an elevator, lit by a wall-fastened lantern.  My finger presses the 1F button. The scissor gate opens to more darkness.  A copper smell hangs heavy here.  Bright red stains mark the floor.  Fresh blood.  Lots of fresh blood.  Quietly, I follow them to a sliver of light -- a door left ajar.  Drawing the magnum, I open the door.</p>
<p>The room is red -- red with the blood soaking the floor and oozing down the high walls and four stone pillars.  Blood drips in thick droplets from the wooden walkway overhead.  Sliced body parts lie scattered like Christmas confetti in a window display.  The nearest column's circular light throws my shadow across the wall.  The black silhouette makes it seem like a man is standing in the middle of the room.</p>
<p>A man <em> did </em> stand in the middle of this room.  A sick man wearing a dirty, torn prisoner uniform, his foam-coated teeth gnashing.</p>
<p><em> Shoot it, Steve!  </em>Claire's voice says.</p>
<p><em> I...I can’t!  </em>mine answers.</p>
<p>Gunfire and screaming erupt.  Then death.  Death that I caused.  Death of a man I somehow knew.  I spent so long wanting him dead and then I killed him and all I could feel was sadness and sickness so strong I couldn't stand.</p>
<p>The magnum drops to the floor.  I drop to the floor.  My heart pounds so loudly I can hear it over the rain.  It pounds so hard it hurts.  I can't breathe.  I can't feel.  I can't think. I just hear Claire's voice saying that name over and over again.  <em> Steve, Steve, Steve. </em>   <em> My </em> name.</p>
<p>She touches me and says something.  All I see is her eyes.  So big and blue.  So kind and warm. The only ray of light in this deep, dark hole.</p>
<p>"Claire, I killed him," I say.  "I guess 'cause I <em> am </em> just a monster."</p>
<p>"No, you're not.  You're a person who's experienced awful things and dealt with it as best as he could, just like every survivor," she says.</p>
<p>"Hard to believe when you kill someone and you don't even know why." </p>
<p>“Your father stole information from Umbrella -- medicinal formulas -- to sell on the black market.”</p>
<p><em> Dad used to work for Umbrella.  Tried to steal information, intending to sell it off to the highest bidder, </em>my voice says.</p>
<p>“But they found out.”</p>
<p>
  <em> He was caught. </em>
</p>
<p>“They killed your mother.  Then sent you and your father here to die.”</p>
<p>
  <em> Mom was killed.  And we were sent here. </em>
</p>
<p>“That’s why you were here when I arrived.  Right after I got caught and sent here, someone bombed the island.  It caused a biohazard.  Your father was infected.  He was so far gone that he tried to kill me.  You had to make a choice.  Okay?”</p>
<p><em> It’s okay now, </em> her voice says. <em> Just rest. </em></p>
<p>"Just <em> breathe</em>."</p>
<p>I take a deep breath and exhale.  In and out, in and out.  The voices fade.  The shadow man is gone.  I'm sitting under the walkway.  Claire kneels beside me, her hand on my shoulder.  She helps me to my feet.</p>
<p>"You okay?" Redfield asks.  He's holding the magnum.</p>
<p>"Yeah, I think so.  How did you guys find me so fast?"</p>
<p>"We just walked in," says Claire. "Where's your friend?"</p>
<p>"She didn't come.  I found these.  Thought they could be useful."  I pass them the walkie talkies. "Trish told me about a security room.  She said you could use the monitors to see the whole island."</p>
<p>"It's on the second floor.  We just came from there," says Redfield. </p>
<p>We scrape the blood off our boots and get on the elevator.  Claire and Redfield explored another wing of the building until they came to the security room.  It was locked by a card reader.  They cut through a courtyard out front to get to the room with the bodies.  There was another door to the security room this way when they -- when <em> we </em> were last here.</p>
<p>The gate opens.  Claire shines a flashlight on the wall.  A metal door gleams silver.  I scan it open.  The wall of glowing screens casts an eerie white light over the room.  A gun locker gleams in one corner -- empty except for a stack of black boxes.  Trish was right: the monitors show the whole island. This lab, the BOW Research lab, the guest house, the workers' dorms, the cafeteria and clinic on the other side of the island, the gardens, the walkways, the bridge, the beach.  Dick and Dr. Cabot ghost onto one screen. Dick points at the cafeteria doors.  Dr. Cabot rips them apart. They go inside.</p>
<p>"Chris, look!" Claire says, pointing to a fuzzy black blob with a pointed tip.</p>
<p>A small jet sitting in the middle of a high-ceilinged hangar.</p>
<p>"There's our ticket out of here," says Redfield.</p>
<p>Claire twists the dial below the monitor.  The camera shifts left, then right.  A series of catwalks wraps the hangar, climbing from the floor to the ceiling.  Big fuel drums rest near the reinforced steel doors and control panel.  Claire taps the dial.  The camera zooms in.  Black letters crawl across the wall.</p>
<p>"EMERGENCY ACCESS.  AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY," she reads.</p>
<p>"I bet that's the old underground hangar," says Redfield.  "If it is, then we need to find a way to either open the hatch or get into the tunnels.  You used to be able to access them through a secret passage near a waterway on B1."</p>
<p>"I passed a waterway on B1 on my way here," I say.</p>
<p>Redfield nods.  "It might be the same one.  Let's check it out."</p>
<p>"I'll stay here and keep an eye on the monitors."  I snap on my walkie talkie.  "I'll radio you if I see anything."</p>
<p>"That's a good idea," Claire says as she and Redfield turn on theirs.  "They're set on Channel 3, so let's sync up on Channel 7 -- for luck."</p>
<p>Redfield hands me the magnum.  "Be careful."</p>
<p>I let them into the hallway.  They take the elevator down.  One monitor shows the boiler room.  I press the button below until the waterfall appears.  Redfield and Claire are leaning over the guardrail, Claire pointing her flashlight at the waterway.  I turn the dial.  The camera pans down.  The light catches an alcove beside the fall.</p>
<p>"Claire, point the flashlight to the left of the fall," I say.</p>
<p>The light moves back to the alcove.</p>
<p>"Move the beam forward slowly," I say.</p>
<p>The light skims toward the camera.  The alcove opens into a walkway. Rows of pipe, gleaming dimly, lead up the wall.</p>
<p>"There's a ladder beside the waterway," I say.</p>
<p>"How do we get down?" Redfield says.</p>
<p>"I'm looking."</p>
<p>I cycle through the camera shots.  The only shot of the waterfall is the one I'm looking at.  None of the other monitors show B1.  I shine my flashlight on the monitor console.  Buttons and labels cut and dot the console surface.  A CB radio and intercom mic rest on one corner.</p>
<p>The light catches the label "MAP."  One "MAP" button reads, "CONTROLS."  I press it.  The large panel beside the buttons flashes on.  A whole map of the island appears.  I press the Viral Research building, then "B1." I tap the room with the waterfall -- the "Safeway" -- and scroll until "WATER OPERATIONS" appears.  I slide the "POWER" meter from 100% to 0%.</p>
<p>The water slows to a spit.  Claire aims the light down. Where the water fell stands a ladder that climbs to the catwalk.  </p>
<p>"Hey, good work!" says Redfield.</p>
<p>Climbing down, he and Claire follow the alcove to the other ladder.  He goes first while she watches.</p>
<p>"Where's Mitchell and the BOW?" asks Claire.</p>
<p>"They're still on the other side of the island, in a watchtower near the bridge," I say.</p>
<p>Redfield pushes aside the hole cover and disappears.  Claire starts after him. I find them on the jet's monitor, moving down a dark corridor with Claire in the lead.  They come to reinforced sliding doors like the ones in the high-ceilinged hangar.</p>
<p>"Hey Snake, a little help, please?" says Claire.</p>
<p>I tap the hangar and then "ACCESS."  A message asks me if I'm sure I want to grant access.  I click "YES."</p>
<p>The doors slide open.  They run to the jet.  Redfield climbs in the cockpit.  The wing lights flash on.  Claire dashes to the doors' control panel.</p>
<p>"Good news: the hatch controls are down here, and the jet has enough fuel to get us to the mainland.  We just need your friend's security pass to access the hatch options."</p>
<p>"Awesome!  I'll get Trish, then we'll meet you guys down there."</p>
<p>I flip through the Viral Research lab and guest house monitors, looking for Dick and Dr. Cabot.  Nothing. That's good enough for me.  Gripping the Magnum, I shatter every screen.  Glass flecks scatter across the control console and floor.  </p>
<p>Something big thunks outside the louvered door.  A giant, green fist punches through the steel louvers.  I scramble behind the control console and twist the walkie talkie's volume to zero.  Wet loafers squeak to the console.  Big, thumping feet follow. </p>
<p>"<em>No! </em> " Dick yells, pounding the console.  <em> "No, no, no, god dammit, </em> no<em>!"  </em></p>
<p>He pants hard.  The mic snaps on.</p>
<p>"That was clever of you to lead me to the wrong part of the island and smash the security monitors.  Though clever you are, the island's resources are limited, and attempting to access them means risking your life.  I merely want to achieve my dream of revenge, so I'll offer safe passage back to the mainland to the person who brings me the BOW.  You have one hour to make yourself known to me, and <em> only </em> one.  After that, I will make sure all three of you suffer a slow and painful death.  Choose wisely this time."</p>
<p>Setting down the mic, he takes a seat in the console's rolling chair.  Static sizzles and pops. A voice cuts through the static.</p>
<p>"Dr. Mitchell?  Are you still in the security room?  I have info on the BOW's whereabouts." </p>
<p>My heart stops.</p>
<p>Dick grabs the corded speaker.  "You came forward quicker than I expected, Patricia."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0029"><h2>29. Chapter 28</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 28</b>
</p>
<p>“Just promise me you won’t go back on your word,” says Trish.  “I’m not like the Redfields -- I’m not a threat. I just want to survive.”</p>
<p>“I won’t go back on mine as long as you don’t go back on yours.  I hope that doesn’t come off as too, ah, ‘acidic.’”</p>
<p>“No, sir.”</p>
<p>“Very good.  Tell me what you know.”</p>
<p>“The BOW is heading with the Redfields to the BOW Research lab.  Their plan is to flood the lab with you and Dr. -- the other BOW trapped inside.”</p>
<p>“Interesting plan.  Thank you for the information.  After I’ve disposed of them all, I’ll grant you access to a secret boat stored near the beach.  Its autopilot is programmed to head for the mainland.”</p>
<p>“Okay.”</p>
<p>“I won’t be long.  Keep your radio close.”</p>
<p>Dick and Dr. Cabot leave through the broken door.  I squirm free and peer through the hole. They’ve vanished.  The CB radio is set to Channel 3.</p>
<p>“Thanks, Trish.  I’ll be right over," I say.  "Wait by the front door.”</p>
<p>“Got it.”</p>
<p>I take the elevator to the first floor.  Holding my breath, I cross the room with the bodies and exit into the courtyard.  The rain has eased into a drizzle.  Sliced tower rods lie in a heap.  A cobblestone path winds along the gray-stone front of the lab.  I follow the path until I reach a pair of footprints, one smaller than the other.  Claire and Redfield.  The prints lead to an iron wrought stairwell that spirals downward to the wooden bridge, which stretches over a dark chasm to the other side of the island.  The crashing of waves rises from the chasm.</p>
<p>The cobblestone path swings right, following the cliffside.  I follow the footprints to stone stairs.  Quietly, I draw the magnum and open the iron wrought gate at the top.  I’m in the guest house’s front garden.  I run to the door and open it.  </p>
<p>“Snake!”  Trish hugs me. </p>
<p>“What do you say we get out of here?” I ask.</p>
<p>She smiles.  “I say I’m going wherever you're going.”</p>
<p>The rain has stopped.  The sunset’s red light burns through the black clouds.  We run to the Viral Research lab and make our way down to the waterway.  Climbing the ladder, we dash down the dark corridor to the hangar. Claire is standing by the control console.  I swipe the ID card and scroll until an option called “HATCH" appears. I tap it and then tap “OPEN.”  The hatch’s gears turn noisily.  Bright, red sky slices the shadowed ceiling. The jet rumbles to life.  </p>
<p>“<em>Let’s go! </em>” yells Claire.</p>
<p>We run to the jet.  Redfield climbs out and pulls me onto the wing.  I take hold of Trish’s hand while Redfield reaches for Claire’s.  Claire looks over her shoulder, then tackles Trish to the floor.  A blade gashes the jet’s black side.  Dick and Dr. Cabot stand on the upper catwalk. Redfield fires.  The blade flies at us.  We jump off the wing.  His handgun skitters away.  </p>
<p>Smiling, Dick points at me.  Dr. Cabot vaults over the guardrail.  The only way out is past the fuel tanks and through the corridor.</p>
<p>“<em>Shoot when he gets to the tanks! </em>” I say to Claire.</p>
<p>I fire at Dr. Cabot’s red, pumping heart.  The bullet tears through his shoulder.  He growls and drops to his haunches.  I sprint for the corridor.  Dr. Cabot pounds after me.  I pass the tanks. An explosion claps my ears and blows me, smoking, into the corridor.  The magnum skitters into the wall.  Screaming, Dr. Cabot collapses in a fiery pile.  He lies still.</p>
<p>Claire lowers her gun.  The burnt mass groans.  It shrieks as its ashy parts twist into bladed limbs.  A dozen explode from both sides. Grabbing the magnum, I aim it at the six-eyed head sprouting from the torso.  I throw Trish’s ID card at Claire.</p>
<p>“<em>Close the door behind me! </em>” I yell.</p>
<p>“<em>No! </em>” screams Trish.  Claire shakes her head, her blue eyes glistening like sapphires.</p>
<p>The torso shudders as it grows long.  Pincers pop from the jaw.  I squeeze the trigger.  Half of the head comes off.  The remaining two red eyes fix on me.  The jaw drops, and the centipede thing shrieks.</p>
<p>“<em>Do it!  Then get the hell out of here! </em>” I say.  </p>
<p>I race into the darkness and drop down the ladder.  The walls shake as I get on the elevator. A thin blade shoots through the floor.  I jump against the scissor gate.  More blades erupt, hooking the elevator.  It jams at the first floor.  The cables strain against the blades. I force open the gate and stumble out.  The elevator rips free and falls down the shaft.  </p>
<p>I run outside.  The jet has risen through a giant hole in the courtyard.    The centipede bursts through the door.  I empty my bullets into its long torso.   Screaming, the creature charges me. I dash to the cliffside. The jet flies into the sunset.</p>
<p>Dick emerges from the courtyard, the centipede looming behind him.</p>
<p>“It seems your rescue party has retreated,” he says.</p>
<p>“Once they contact the BSAA, they’ll be back,” I say.</p>
<p>“True.  But you’ll be long dead before then.  And the organs you stole from my wife will be with her.”</p>
<p>I drop the magnum.  Yanking off my jacket and slit sweater, I throw them aside.  My heart pounds steady and strong as I step to the edge.</p>
<p>I jump.</p>
<p>The wind lashes me cold and painful.  Below, the waves smash the sharp rocks.  I shut my eyes and make myself think about Trish and Claire.  Claire and her beautiful eyes, big and blue. Sparkling and fierce.  Just like the ocean --</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0030"><h2>30. Chapter 29</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 29</b>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Claire </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> oh Steve </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> you’re warm </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0031"><h2>31. Chapter 30</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 30</b>
</p>
<p>I'm burning.  </p>
<p>The sky bleeds red flames.  The shadow man stands over me, his face half alight in the fire.  His own shadow stands behind him, a tall ashy thing with snakes swimming about it. </p>
<p>I know this place.  Trish told me about it once, when she was telling me about the orphanage.</p>
<p>This is hell.</p>
<p>"Clever, trying to crush her organs."  The shadow man jabs my forehead.  "You would've done better to incinerate yourself.  But don't worry.  All in good time."</p>
<p>A snake slithers around my boot.  The shadow man and his shadow drag me into darkness.  Not total darkness, though.  Even hell has stars.  But they're fading.  Everything is fading, including the pain, and I'm holding on only by a thought:</p>
<p>
  <em> Trish, Redfield, Claire.  They got away. </em>
</p>
<p>I let go.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0032"><h2>32. Chapter 31</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 31</b>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Steve you’ve got to hang in there okay<br/></em>
  <em>my brother’s come to save us<br/></em>
  <em>we’re getting out of here</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> i swore to protect you Claire<br/></em>
  <em>i’m sorry i couldn’t<br/></em>
  <em>it makes me happy knowing you have someone who can</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> what<br/></em>
  <em>what are you saying?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>i’m glad that i met you</em><br/>
  <em>i<br/></em>
  <em>i </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0033"><h2>33. Chapter 32</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 32</b>
</p><p>
  <em> “I’ll be home for Christmas.  You can plan on me.  Please have snow, and mistletoe, and presents on the tree…” </em>
</p><p>The surgical lighthead glows as bright and white as the sun on a clear winter’s day.  Metal clinks against metal.  Gentle “oohs” flow through the surgical bay.  A bonesaw shines sharp silver under the light.</p><p><em> “Christmas Eve will find me where the love light gleams,” </em> Dick sings, inspecting the blade.  “<em>I’ll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams… </em>I hope I didn’t wake you.  We have much to accomplish in so little time so we can prepare for your friend Chris's return.  But who can resist Frank Sinatra at Christmastime?  Dr. Cabot is a particular fan of Old Blue Eyes.  Aren’t you, Marty?”</p><p>Dr. Cabot stands in silence in the dark corner, his blank eyes glinting like twin pearls.  Dick lays the saw on the tray. </p><p>“You must be in horrible pain,” he says.  “Pain is counterproductive to healing.  I’ll give you a sedative to help you sleep while I fix you."</p><p>He picks up a syringe full of blue liquid.  He sticks it in my neck.</p><p>“Then, when her organs are healed and you’ve awakened, I’ll slice you open and take them from you -- just like he took them from her all those years ago,” he says, plunging the needle, "back when all of this started...”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0034"><h2>34. Chapter 33</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 33</b>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Fire.  And darkness. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> On the ground below, something moves.  I shine the mounted Gatling gun’s searchlight on it and fire.  The light explodes.  Gunfire slaps into the tower. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I put my hands in the air.  “Wait!  Don't shoot!” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> The person yells, “Who are you?” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> It's a girl.  She sounds young, maybe around my age. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Wait right there,” I yell back.  “I'm coming over.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I climb over the side of the tower and drop to the ground.  She keeps the gun trained on me as I approach her. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Sorry about that little misunderstanding,” I say, “but I thought you were another one of those monsters--” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> She points the gun in my face.  “Shut up.  Make one wrong move, and I’ll shoot.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> She's about my height.  Skinny, but she definitely works out.  Dressed in jeans and a red vest buttoned over a black crop top, with her brown hair pulled back in a ponytail.  Two big, beautiful, blue eyes light up her face.  In short, she's way hotter than any of the girls at my high school, especially after six months in this place without seeing so much as a picture of a girl. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I give her a smile -- the same smile that some of the girls at school said is cute.  “Relax, beautiful.  I said I was sorry.  My name’s Steve.  Steve Burnside.  I was a prisoner on this island.  I’m going to guess you’re not with Umbrella, either.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> She lowers the gun.  “No, I’m Claire.  Claire Redfield.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “‘Claire?’  Hm. Nice. I’ll remember that.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> She rolls her eyes.  She isn't feeling it.  Can't say I blame her, all things considered. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “I heard there was an airport around here,” I say. “You wouldn’t happen to know where it is, would you?” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “No, but I just got here and --” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “‘No’’s good enough.”  I head toward the prisoners’ barracks. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Hey, wait up!” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I turn around.  She's right on my heels, like a stray kitten. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Huh-uh.  I don't want you following me around.  You'll only slow me down,” I say. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Cocking an eyebrow, she makes a sour face.  “Excuse me?” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Whatever.  It's not like she can help me anyway.  People are like that. Dependent, but never dependable -- </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0035"><h2>35. Chapter 34</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 34</b>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Chris Redfield.”  That's the only search result for the name “Redfield.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I click the database file.  It loads a bunch of stats and a photo of a big, military-looking guy.  He has brown hair and blue eyes, just like Claire.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Footsteps pad behind me.  I stand and turn. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “What are you doing here?” Claire asks. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Is Chris Redfield a relative of yours or something?” I ask. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Yeah.  He’s my brother.  How do you know him?” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I jerk my thumb at the computer screen.  “It seems your brother's under surveillance by Umbrella.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “What?”  She runs to the computer. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “That file shows the latitude and longitude of this place,” I say. “Why don't you send your brother the coordinates and ask him to come help?” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Thanks.  I'll do that.”  She types furiously. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Hey, I was kidding.  There's no way he'll come all the way out here just to save you.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “You don't know him like I do.” </em>
</p>
<p><em> Jesus.  How can someone smart enough to survive </em> The Evil Dead <em> be so dumb? </em></p>
<p><em> Sighing, I say, “Here’s a little tip I picked up the hard way: don’t rely on other people.  You might </em> think <em> you know them, but they’ll disappoint you in the end.” </em></p>
<p>
  <em> Her eyebrows knit together.  She frowns.  “My brother isn’t like that.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Rolling my eyes, I turn and shove open the door.  “Glad to hear it.  Have fun dying --” </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0036"><h2>36. Chapter 35</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><b>Chapter</b> <b>35</b></p>
<p>
  <em> The wall slides sideways.  I run out of the heat trap, panting.  Claire stands before a control panel that wasn't in the lounge's wall a minute ago.  I wipe the sweat off my face. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “That was too close.  Thanks for the help.”  I draw the two golden Lugers.  “Check out these bad boys. They look cool, huh?” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Her face lights up.  “Oh, I need those. Give them to me.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> She sticks out her hand like a kid wanting candy. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “You've got to be kidding,” I say.  “I found them and I'm keeping 'em.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Come on, Steve.  I need them to unlock a door upstairs.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “I’ve never heard of a door that needs guns to open.  Well, unless you count using them to blow it open.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Cocking an eyebrow, she frowns again.  She's irritated.  I finally got under the impenetrable Claire Redfield's skin. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Alright, if you want them so bad, let's make a deal,” I say.  “I'll trade you for something fully automatic.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “I’ve got this.”  She holds up her handgun.   </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Hm.  I guess you’d better start looking, huh?” I say, laughing as I race out the door. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Claire's okay, I guess.  Kind of clueless, yeah, but she did save my life just now.  She didn't have to do that.  Maybe I can return the favor sometime -- </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0037"><h2>37. Chapter 36</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 36</b>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Claire's scream echoes through the hallway.  I run until I come to a window.  It overlooks a big lift.  Standing on it are Claire and a monster about the size of a man.  Fried yellow skin stretches over its thick torso and shoulders.  One of its arms shrivels into a fin.  The other arm stretches into a long, thick whip with three gnarled fingers at the end. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Snapping the whip arm, it grabs Claire by her neck and hoists her into the air.  I fire.  The window explodes.  Jumping onto the lift, I fire again.  The monster screams and drops Claire.  She lies motionless. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> The monster rounds on me.  I unload on the son of a bitch, backing it into a corner.  The monster staggers.  I kick it into the wall.  I aim at its heart and pull the triggers.  Screaming again, the monster slumps to the floor, dead. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I go to Claire.  Her eyes open.  Groaning, she rubs her neck and winces.  She looks at the dead thing. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I give her a smile.  “Don’t worry, Claire.  Your knight in shining armor is here!” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> She pushes herself to her feet.  “You wish.  But thanks for your help.  By the way, since you’re here...”  She retrieves a pair of submachine guns from the floor and holds them out.  “Fully automatic.  Just as you requested.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Wow...” I finger the black metal. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> She pulls them away.  “You know the deal.  Your Lugers in exchange for the subs.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I grin.  “Okay, okay!” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> The subs are heavier than the Lugers -- heavier but faster and more powerful.  More dependable in a fight. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Sliding off the safety locks, I aim at the wall, the door, the dead monster.  “Now this is my kind of weapon!” I say. </em>
</p>
<p><em> I pull the triggers.  The subs click.  I try again.  All I get is </em> click-click-click<em>.  Claire snickers. </em></p>
<p>
  <em> I round on her.  “Hey, these things are empty!  You cheated me!” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Smiling, she nods at a tall stack of boxes on the lift.  “That top box has some ammo for them. Give me a boost, and I'll get you as much ammo as you can carry.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “All right, all right,” I say, dropping to my hands and knees.   </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Claire steps on my back, and pain shoots through me.  For such a skinny girl, she sure is heavy.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Hurry up!” I groan. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> She steps off me.  When I climb to my feet, she's holding a box of ammo clips. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Happy now?” she asks. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I have to admit, Claire's pretty cool.  Kind of a tease, but at least she doesn't scare easily.  And she doesn't whine when the going gets tough.  Plus, she's cute.  Not a bad person to get stuck with -- </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0038"><h2>38. Chapter 37</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 37</b>
</p>
<p>
  <em> The lift stops at the next floor down.  Here, there are more monsters. People who used to work here, guards and maintenance workers and whatnot else who are now infected. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Monsters who were people who were monsters.  It's kind of funny in a way. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I take point and mow down the whole lot of them.  It feels good, no matter how sick that sounds.  It isn't sick -- not when they deserve it. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I lead Claire through a storage room and boiler room.  The next room is big and dark, made of stone.  Water gushes under a catwalk, which leads to an elevator. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I stop to cock the guns.  “These things are way more reliable than any person.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Claire looks at me with concern.  It's been a long time since anyone was concerned about me.  And I don't want anyone to be, not when it's bullshit.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I march toward the elevator, but she gets in my way.  “Steve, what happened to you on this island?  Who brought you here, and where is your family?” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I try to go around her.  She puts a hand on my arm.   I wrench away. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “I don't want to talk about it.  Got it?” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> "Steve --" </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I fire into the darkness.  The gunfire echoes through the room.  I release the trigger. The only sound is that of the water rushing underneath.   </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Her face is still full of concern.  It pisses me off and makes me sad at the same time.  I swore months ago that I was done being sad.  Sadness is weakness, and I am not weak. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Keeping my back to her, I snap, “Let's get going.”  Then I run for the elevator -- </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0039"><h2>39. Chapter 38</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 38</b>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I hit the ground hard.  Shaking my head, I grab the subs and slip them into my belt. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Claire, are you okay?” I ask. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> She's sitting up.  Her foot is caught under part of the wooden catwalk.  She tugs at it, trying to pull free. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> She looks at me.  Her eyes widen. “Steve, behind you!” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I rip out the guns and spin.  I'm aiming at Dad.  But he isn't Dad anymore.  He's infected.  A gray-skinned, half-rotted zombie in a dirty prisoner uniform.  A monster.  Like every monster here, he deserves it: infection, suffering, death.  For what happened to me and Mom, he deserves it all. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> But I can't pull the triggers.  My fingers won't move. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> He lumbers toward me, his eyes blank and unseeing, his mouth foaming and teeth bared.  I step backward until I'm against the wall. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Shoot it, Steve!” Claire yells. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “I...I can't!” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> He turns to Claire.  Sinking to the ground, he crawls toward her.  He stretches out a decayed hand.  She screams. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I fire.  The bullets knock him flat on the ground.  He jerks and jumps with each shot like bacon on a hot skillet. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> The subs click dry.  Silence fills the room.  He lies motionless -- dead, just like the other monsters I killed.  The monsters that were people.  But he isn't just another monster. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Dad,” I whisper. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> My throat burns.  My vision blurs. The submachine guns fall, and I sink to my knees.  Tears roll down my cheeks. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I was wrong.  I am weak. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> But I don't care. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I sob hard into one clenched fist.  The debris collapses.  I look up.  Claire is walking to me.  Pushing aside one sub, she sits beside me.  I want to tell her to piss off, that I just want to be alone.  But I don't.  Instead, I wrap my arms around my knees and stare at the monster, at the dead person that was Dad. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I suck back snot.  Swallow.  Rub my nose, my cheeks, my eyes.   </em>
</p>
<p><em> “Dad used to work for Umbrella,” I say.  “Tried to steal information, intending to sell it off to the highest bidder. </em>   <em> He was caught. </em>   <em> Mom was killed.  And we were sent here.” </em></p>
<p>
  <em> “Oh, Steve.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “He was a fool to do something so reckless.  So stupid.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Claire stands and pulls an old, folded-up sheet of burlap from some stacked supplies.  She shakes it out and drapes it over Dad.  Then she straightens the edges and corners so they lie flat. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> She touches my shoulder.  “It’s okay now.  Just rest.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Nodding, I bury my face in my knees.  Her footsteps go to the door. It opens and closes.  The room goes silent again. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> So many things war inside me.  Anger.  Sadness.  Loss.  Guilt. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> The only good thing I have is the knowledge that I saved Claire.  She's so kind and selfless.  So unlike most people, including me -- </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0040"><h2>40. Chapter 39</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 39</b>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “We made it!” I say. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “It's finally over!” Claire says, smiling at me. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> That smile hurts.  After everything I said and did, I don't deserve it. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Claire, I'm sorry.  I know I caused a lot of trouble for you.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> "It's okay.  I...I know things were hard for you.  And I didn't say it back there, but thank you for saving me.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I look out the plane's windshield.  The wide, open ocean stretches beyond the horizon.  Who knows how long it'll take us to reach civilization?  That's why I shouldn't think about her smile, pretty eyes, or soft touch -- and why I definitely shouldn't think about how warm she makes me feel inside. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I swallow.  “Well, I really hope you find your brother.  I...I know what's like to be alone." </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I glance at her.  She smiles again.  My face grows hot.  I focus on the ocean sailing under us -- </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0041"><h2>41. Chapter 40</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 40</b>
</p>
<p>
  <em> We sit against one of the plane's walls.  Claire is asleep, her breathing slow and steady.  Her head rests on my shoulder.  The air has grown cold, and she's curled into me.  I'm supposed to be sleeping too, but I can't. Not with my heart racing like this. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> She rolls away.  Her eyes are still shut.  Her breathing is still slow.  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Why does someone like her care about someone like me? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Could she ever care about me the way I care about her? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I lean in close to her.  Take in her soft cheeks and jaw, her pink lips. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> What would it be like to kiss her? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I've kissed girls.  It was nice but no big deal.  But the thought of kissing Claire… </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> How would she feel about me kissing her? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Would she hate it? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Would she like it? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Would she want me to keep going? </em>
</p>
<p><em> I just want to know what the big deal is.  Why I feel so warm inside, why my face gets hot, why my heart jackhammers every time she looks at me or smiles at me or touches me.  Why I feel so different.  So...so </em> good<em>. </em></p>
<p>
  <em> I lean in closer.  Her breath steams my face. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Then she yawns and stretches.  I back away.  I stand up, leaving her warmth -- </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0042"><h2>42. Chapter 41</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 41</b>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Snow swirls around us, violent as gunfire.  The cold air numbs me like anesthesia.   </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Let's go!” Claire says, shouldering the rifle she found. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> She starts down a set of stairs, but pauses.  She stumbles back onto the platform. Climbing the stairs is a man.  No, not a man.  A green-skinned monster with a dirty rag tied across his eyes, his mouth gaping open.  His arms are cuffed behind him. His big, red heart pulsates in the center of his chest.  Three jerky tentacles explode from his back. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I step in front of Claire and train the subs on his heart.  He swings one tentacle.  It hits me, sending me flying off the edge.  I grab a rusty pipe sticking out of the platform frame. The subs disappear into the white mist below. </em>
</p>
<p><em> “ </em> Steve!<em>"</em></p>
<p>
  <em> Claire is above me, leaning over the edge so she can see me.  She glances behind her. “Hold on! I'll waste that monster and then come back!” </em>
</p>
<p><em> “Claire, forget about me!  </em> Run<em>!” </em></p>
<p>
  <em> But she’s gone.  Two shots ring out.  Only the howling of the wind remains. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> My grip on the pipe is slipping.  The snow continues to swirl below me.  What's at the bottom besides more snow and death? </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> At this point, is it even worth holding on? </em>
</p>
<p><em> “ </em> Steve!<em>"</em></p>
<p>
  <em> Claire is above me, leaning over the platform edge again. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Claire?!” I say. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Grinning, she grabs the edge and gives me her hand.  She hauls me onto the platform.  We lie side by side, panting. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “I'm sorry I failed you,” I say. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Playfully, she punches my shoulder.  “Don't worry about it.  Let's get out of here!” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Grabbing the rifle, she stands and runs down the stairs.  I watch her disappear, then push myself onto my feet. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I swear I'll protect you next time, Claire -- </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0043"><h2>43. Chapter 42</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 42</b>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Steve?” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> My head hurts.  My whole body hurts.  I'm so dizzy I can barely make out what's in front of me.  But I think it's her.  I think it's -- </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Claire?” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> She runs to me.  She presses a button on the wall.  The bars pinning me to the chair slide away.  The big ax still remains buried in the wall.  Its handle crosses over my chest, holding me in place.  Claire grabs the handle and yanks on it. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “I can't get it,” she says.  “Who did this to you?” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “That crazy woman.  She told me she was going to perform the same experiment on me that she did on her own father.  She's completely insane --” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Pain erupts through my body.  Something inside me swells, cutting off my oxygen.  Screaming, I claw at my chest. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “What's wrong?” Claire says. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I gasp, “Claire -- can’t -- breathe -- Claire -- help me -- Claire -- !” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Anger fills me so deeply that everything needs to be destroyed, including the skinny thing that no longer has a name. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Steve!” it cries. </em>
</p>
<p><em> I grab the ax and rip it out of the wall.  I stand tall, much taller than the puny, pathetic thing is.  Growling, I swing the ax at it.  It dodges and runs away.  I run after it.  I swing the ax and smash other puny, pathetic things made of iron.  I </em> will <em> kill it.  I will annihilate it and rip it apart like wet tissue.  Then I’ll lather in its blood until the peace comes and I can rest. </em></p>
<p>
  <em> Metal sticks crawl between me and the little thing.  I strike them over and over, splitting and bending them into a hole I can climb through.  Mistress sends a long, squirmy beastie that smacks the thing against the wall.  The beastie slithers around the teeny thing and lifts it into the air. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I raise the ax high. </em>
</p>
<p><em> The thingie looks at me with its blue eyes.  </em> Her <em> blue eyes.  So fierce.  So pretty.  So like the girl named -- </em></p>
<p><em> “ </em> Claire!<em>” </em></p>
<p>
  <em> The name roars from my mouth, from me.  Claire Redfield.  The girl with blue eyes.  The girl who showed me concern, kindness, and compassion when no one else would.  My friend. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I slice off the beastie wrapped around her.  She falls to the floor.  Mistress sends another beastie.  Smacking the ax from my clawed hand, the beastie flies through me.  It pins me, bleeding, to the wall as I howl in pain.  Then the beastie, the tentacle is gone.  Mistress -- that crazy woman -- is gone. The anger is gone.  Even the pain is gone. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> The only thing left is Claire.   </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> She runs toward me.  The green scales, fangs, and claws melt, and I shrink back down to my scrawny five-foot-eight.  By the time she reaches me, I look human again except for the green skin.  But I'm not human, not anymore.  And thanks to this giant hole in my gut and the blood pooling around me, it doesn't matter anymore.  Nothing matters now except Claire. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Kneeling, she stares at the hole in my gut.  Her blue eyes glisten. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Oh, Steve,” she says. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I give her a smile.  A reassuring one, to let her know it's okay -- that I feel peace. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I place her hand on my cheek.  “You’re warm.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Steve, you’ve got to hang in there, okay?  My brother’s come to save us. We’re getting out of here.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “I swore I'd protect you, Claire.  I'm sorry I couldn't.  It makes me happy knowing you have someone who can.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> A tear slides down her cheek.  “What...what are you saying?” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “I’m glad that I met you.  I...I love you, Claire.” </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I fall into darkness. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Somewhere far away, like an echo across an ocean, I hear her: </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> “Steve?  Steve!  No, Steve, wake up!  Wake up, Steve --” </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0044"><h2>44. Chapter 43</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 43</b>
</p>
<p>The surgical bay's lighthead moons overhead.  The woman in the photo glares at me.</p>
<p>“Her name was Sylvia.  And she was the only genuinely good person I've ever met.”</p>
<p>Dick appears above me.  The tray rests next to the gurney, the tools angled so they gleam brightly.  Dr. Cabot looms ghost-like at the end of the gurney, his eyes shining white. I lie naked, bound by leather straps and cuffs.  Fresh, pearly scars slice me all over like tiger stripes.  I ache too much to fight or struggle, so I just stare at the lighthead.</p>
<p>"She was a file clerk at the hospital where I worked," Dick says.  "It was her first job out of college.  She'd studied English Literature.  Loved Keats and Thoreau.  She thought about becoming a teacher because she loved children and wanted to help them.  It was such a charming notion, doing something to help others regardless of how much it paid.  She made me want to want to help people even when it didn't benefit me.  But it didn't work.  Marty offered me too much money.  Had I not accepted, I have no doubt Sylvia would have become an excellent teacher. </p>
<p>"She noticed I wasn’t eating or sleeping.  When she confronted me, I insisted it was the island’s climate.  I knew she didn’t believe me.  So one night when I did manage to fall asleep, she took my ID card snuck into one of the labs.  </p>
<p>“She was furious with me for not telling her.  She wanted us to take the research, sneak onboard one of the freight planes, and report what was happening to the government.  I told her we couldn't, that people had been caught doing that and then detained for experimentation until death.  Even if we somehow made it to the mainland, Gaea had connections who would kill us for leaking information.</p>
<p>“She said,<em>'But we have to do something, Rich! We can't just let them keep doing this to people!  You can't keep doing it at their behest!’ </em> I said we had no choice -- that we were trapped in Gaea's web for life.  She called me a pathetic coward.  And she never smiled again.</p>
<p>“From then on, she spent most of her free time on the beach away from everyone, including me.  Marty, I thought, would at least sympathize with me since we were old college friends.  I told him about her taking my ID card and getting into one of the labs.  He assured me she'd come around.  In the meantime, he told me, I should keep a close eye on my card.  So, she took another researcher's ID card and started breaking into the labs to go through our research and make copies of it.</p>
<p>“That's how she found you, floating in your tank.  You had scars all over you from where we’d transplanted countless organs in you, all to no avail.  Sooner or later, they all succumbed to the virus.  The research on you was the last thing that she copied before she snuck aboard the freight plane bound for the mainland.  She must have thought that the sooner she left, the greater chance she had of saving you.</p>
<p>“But she was caught.  The guards were waiting for her because the revered ‘Dr. Cabot’ had informed them of what I'd told him.  I didn't even get to say good-bye, to tell her I loved her and how sorry I was.  I didn't even know until after it was done and her remains had been incinerated and dumped with the hazardous waste, like garbage.  Oh, but at least the virus within you stabilized.  You took her organs so you could enjoy a second life as a Frankenstein’s monster.  The organs of a good person who didn’t deserve to die, especially not in the manner she did.  A person who was trying to <em> help </em>you.”</p>
<p>I swallow the burning in my throat.  “I’m sorry.”</p>
<p>Dick snorts.  “That’s what Marty said when he woke up on this gurney and realized I’d been the one to frame him.  <em> ‘Wait, Dick, wait, I’m sorry, I was just doing what Gaea wanted me to do.  I didn’t want to do it. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.’   </em>It was the last thing he said before I shot him full of T-Veronica.  It meant nothing then, and it means nothing now.”</p>
<p>“What are -- What are you going to do with them?  After you take them out?” I ask.</p>
<p>“I’m going to cremate them, go to the beach, and scatter them in the ocean.  Then ‘Dr. Cabot’ and I will wait for Chris and the BSAA.  Then...I think I’ll return to California and live out the remainder of my days in contentment, after I’ve forced this monster to stab itself in the heart.  Speaking of which --” He pulls a knife from the tray, “It’s time we begin.  Any last words?  I’m sure ‘Dr. Cabot’ would be delighted to hear what his creation has to say in its final moments.”</p>
<p>I take a deep breath and will away the burning in my throat, the tears clouding my vision.  I close my eyes.</p>
<p>“Please leave Claire and Trish alone,” I say.</p>
<p>A siren blares.  The emergency light beside the intercom speaker flashes red.</p>
<p>“<em>What? </em>” says Dick.</p>
<p><em> “The island self-destruct sequence has been activated.  Please evacuate Coeus Island immediately,” </em> an automated voice says.  “ <em> The island self-destruct sequence has been activated... </em>”</p>
<p>Growling, Dick slams the knife beside me.  “Don’t get comfortable.”</p>
<p>He storms out of the surgical bay, Dr. Cabot trailing.  The door opens gently.  Boots tap toward me. It’s --</p>
<p>“<em>Claire! </em>” I say.  “What are you doing here?”</p>
<p>Tossing some clothes, a pair of sneakers, and my jacket from LAX over the tools, she unfastens the cuffs and straps.  “Saving you.  Come on.”</p>
<p>She pulls me into a sitting position.  Pain shoots through me, hot and furious.  With her help, I stand and get dressed.  The magnum shells are gone.</p>
<p>Claire holds up a walkie talkie.  “Trish, I’ve got him. Where’s Mitchell?”</p>
<p>“He followed my footprints to the Viral Research lab.”</p>
<p>“Good.  We can plant the bomb and trap him down here long enough for Chris and the BSAA to arrive.  We’re on our way up.”</p>
<p>“I’m already here.”</p>
<p>Flipping up her red t-shirt, Claire hooks the walkie talkie to her belt.  “Let’s go.”</p>
<p>Grabbing my hand, Claire leads me up the crumbling stairs.  We run to the other stairwell. The door and frame lie in splintered pieces.  The stairs leading up have collapsed into chunky debris.</p>
<p>“<em>Trish! </em>” Claire yells.</p>
<p>Trish appears above us.  Lying on the floor, she reaches toward me.  “<em>Take my hand! </em>”</p>
<p>Claire helps me climb the debris.  I take hold of Trish’s hand.  Screaming, she rockets forward.  We fall on the floor.  Wetness soaks my shirt.  Blood. <em>  Trish’s </em> blood.</p>
<p>“<em>Trish! </em>” I yell.</p>
<p>She burbles bright red blood in response.</p>
<p>Dick and Dr. Cabot stand where Trish appeared.  Claire yanks me to my feet, and we run.  A tentacle smacks us into the curved wall.  Dr. Cabot walks toward us.  A gun fires, and a bullet tears through his arm. He turns.  Trish shakily re-aims the magnum and fires again.  Screaming again, he doubles over and sinks to one knee.</p>
<p>Dick drops down the shaft.  He kicks the magnum out of Trish’s hand and then kicks her in the gut.  She shrieks in agony.  Picking up the gun, he aims at us.</p>
<p>Dick shakes his head, smiling.  “Claire, Claire, Claire. You can’t stay away from trouble.”</p>
<p>Claire stands between me and him.  I move in front of her.  Dr. Cabot takes his place behind Dick.</p>
<p>He laughs.  “If you weren’t some inhumane monster created from dead body parts, I’d say this was touching.  Now come with me, or I will make her death more painful than yours.”</p>
<p>“<em>Dick! </em>”</p>
<p>Trish throws a black box.  It skitters across the floor to Dr. Cabot.  Red numbers flash across the screen: <em> 0:03, 0:02, 0:01 -- </em></p>
<p>I throw myself on Claire.  The explosion rocks the corridor.  Heat sears my back and roasts my bare skin.  The floor collapses and tilts sideways.  We tumble into the demonstration room.</p>
<p>The siren ceases.  Ocean-filtered sunlight dances across the walls and floor.  A bloody heap of scorched flesh writhes on the floor.  Dick rests motionless near the screeching thing, ashy and bleeding, his legs and right arm blown off.  The magnum sits not far away, his hand still clenching the stock.  Beyond Dr. Cabot and Dick lies Trish, her limbs splayed like a snow angel’s.  Bright red stains her white shirt.  </p>
<p>“<em>Trish! </em>” I yell.</p>
<p>She doesn’t respond.</p>
<p>I start for her.  Dr. Cabot screams, a sound as sad as it is pain-filled.  He stretches his charred, stumpy arm toward me.  Clear fluid fills his white eyes and trails oil-like down his cheeks. </p>
<p>I grab the magnum and wrench Dick’s hand off.  Four bullets remain.  Snapping the chamber shut, I walk to Dr. Cabot, Claire following with the handgun drawn.  He points the stump at his beating heart.</p>
<p>I aim the gun.  “I don’t hate you,” I say.</p>
<p>He closes his eyes.  </p>
<p>Then he begins to seize.  He shrieks as his body balloons and his spines twists and stretches.  Bladed legs erupt from his torso. Flipping forward, he turns to face us.  The stump’s burnt flesh bubbles and melts into a spined hook.  Four tentacles explode from his back.  Beyond him, Dick clenches his fist, his bloodshot eyes upon us.  His wedding band glints in the sleepy light.</p>
<p>Claire and I aim at the centaur-monster and fire.  Roaring, it gallops forward.  We jump apart.  It tears past us and skids to a stop, its bladed legs ripping grooves in the floor.  Claire grabs my arm, and we run for the hole where the door used to stand.  Dr. Cabot sails over us and lands between us and the hole.  </p>
<p>Trotting toward us, he raises his hook.  We both fire.  A tentacle smacks me against the wall.  The magnum spins away.  Claire fires again.  Roaring, he rears up and stomps the floor.  The impact knocks Claire off her feet.  I run for the magnum.</p>
<p>“<em>Claire! </em>”</p>
<p>Redfield kneels atop the rubble, a rocket launcher propped upon his shoulder.</p>
<p>“<em>Get down! </em>” he yells.</p>
<p>Claire throws herself on the floor.  Redfield fires.  The rocket hits Dr. Cabot in the stomach.  The fiery explosion blows him apart.  Smoking pieces smack the floor like fat rain drops.  Redfield drops the launcher and jumps down, the rockets hooked to his belt swishing. Claire hugs him tightly.</p>
<p>“How fortunate,” Dick croaks.  “You made it back just in time.  And the self-destruct sequence seems to have malfunctioned, so you can all just traipse out of here.”</p>
<p>“No one’s ‘traipsing’ anywhere -- not until the BSAA gets here, which’ll be any minute now,” says Redfield.  “Then you’ll get to spend the rest of your miserable life in the hospital ward of a federal penitentiary.” </p>
<p>Dick smiles, showing blood-stained teeth.  “The more, the merrier.”</p>
<p>I pick up the magnum.  “He isn’t going to make it to the penitentiary,” I say, checking the chamber.  One bullet remains.</p>
<p>“No, we need him for questioning --”</p>
<p>“Look at him: he’s bleeding out so fast he can barely talk.  You’ll be lucky if he lasts until the BSAA gets here,” I say.  “He doesn’t deserve to live anyway.”</p>
<p>Dick laughs, spurting more blood.</p>
<p>Claire takes hold of my arm. “He’s a monster, but if you kill him, then you’re no better than he is.”</p>
<p>Pulling away from her, I stand over him and point the gun at his charred forehead.</p>
<p>“I’ll give you a choice,” I say.  “You can wait for the BSAA and hope you don’t die, or I can end it for you.”</p>
<p>He frowns.  Lifting his shaking hand, he gazes at the wedding band.  “She never took hers off.  Marty told me when I couldn’t find it.  She was still wearing it when they burned her.”</p>
<p>“Maybe she never gave up hope that you’d become the man she loved again," I say.</p>
<p>His eyes glaze over.  He closes them and lets his hand drop.</p>
<p>“Do it,” he says.</p>
<p>I pull the trigger. Then I toss the gun.  Claire takes my hand and squeezes it.</p>
<p>“<em>Snake </em>?” Trish rasps.</p>
<p>“<em>Trish! </em>” I yell, running to her.</p>
<p>Her eyes are open, and she gasps with each breath.  I cradle her and wipe the blood trailing from her mouth.  Smiling weakly, she takes hold of my hand. The sleepy sunlight dances across her face.</p>
<p>“Dick?”</p>
<p>“He’s dead.  They’re both dead.”</p>
<p>“Good.  Listen, you have to get out of here.  The system is analyzing the damage right now.  When it finishes, the island is going to explode.”  She opens her other hand.  A cap-sealed computer chip lies in her palm.  “Here.  It’s everything you need to know.”</p>
<p>“Trish, it doesn’t have to be like this.  The virus -- it saved me -- it could save you.  All I need is a blade and --”</p>
<p>“I don’t want more people to die for me.”</p>
<p>“Then we’ll find some other way.  Just -- Trish, <em> please</em>.  After all we’ve been through, you can’t just leave me like this.”</p>
<p>“For the first time in my life, I like who I am.  And it’s because of you.  I guess that’s why I fell in love with you.”</p>
<p>My throat burns.  My vision blurs.  “Oh, Trish.”</p>
<p>“It's okay.  You have Claire.  She cares so much about you.  Hold onto her.  Now<em> go</em>, and live a long, happy life.  That's all I want, Snake.  <em>Steve </em>.”</p>
<p>Her eyes close.  Her hand goes limp.  She’s gone.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0045"><h2>45. Chapter 44</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 44</b>
</p>
<p>I bury my face in Trish’s and let the tears fall.</p>
<p>“We need to get out of here,” says Redfield.</p>
<p>Sucking back snot, I nod.  Stuffing the chip in my jacket pocket, I loop one arm under Trish and pick her up.  “I’ll meet you up there.  I need to do something first.”</p>
<p>“I’ll go with you,” Claire says to me.</p>
<p>“Hurry,” Redfield says and then climbs the rubble.</p>
<p>I lead Claire past the blood, body parts, and scorched crater.  Using Trish’s ID card, Claire scans open my glass-doored cell.  Laying Trish on the bed, I pull the fresh linen over her.  I take off her glasses and set them on the dresser.</p>
<p>Claire waits outside.  She scans the door open and then hugs me.  She hands me the ID card.  </p>
<p>“She’d want you to have it,” she says.</p>
<p>Trish smiled so happily for this photo.  They had to have taken it before she got here and found out what being a Gaea employee was all about.  At least I can remember how she looked smiling.  I slide the card inside my jacket pocket.</p>
<p>Water dribbles from a crack in the dome.  We climb the rubble.  A chunk of wall collapses as we reach the first sub-level.  Cracks web across the glass panels.  The whirring of chopper blades and chatter of several people fill the stairwell shaft. </p>
<p>Grabbing hold of a scrap of guard rail, Claire hoists herself onto the debris.  The rail slips.  Screaming, Claire falls backward.  I catch her.  The shaft groans.</p>
<p>“<em>Claire? </em>” yells Redfield as he appears above us.</p>
<p>The walls shake.  We back out of the stairwell.  The stairs collapse, sealing the hole.</p>
<p>"<em>Claire!  Are you okay? </em>" Redfield's voice leaks through the cracks.</p>
<p>"<em>We're fine! </em>"  Claire yells back.</p>
<p>A monstrous roar fills the corridor.  Inside the demonstration room, a charred hunk of meat shudders as its bloats to the size of a car.  Fat tentacles burst free, striking the ground.</p>
<p>“What the hell?” I say.</p>
<p>“It’s the virus,” says Claire.  “Without Mitchell to control it, it’s free to consume the host.”</p>
<p>“<em>Claire, what’s going on? </em>” Redfield asks.</p>
<p><em> “The monster’s still alive,</em>” Claire answers.</p>
<p>“<em>Clear this passageway, on the double! </em>” he barks.</p>
<p>Hammering echoes through the debris.  The blob is now tank-sized.  Its tentacles shoot into the framework.  The floor trembles and splits as it gives way.  The observation deck door falls with it.  Water bursts through cracks in the glass.  Claire and I back into the stairwell door frame.</p>
<p>“<em>We have to go, sir, </em>” says a man.</p>
<p>“<em>She’s my sister!  I’m not leaving her here! </em>” yells Redfield.</p>
<p>“<em>Chris, we have to go, </em> ” says a woman.  “<em>If we don’t, we’ll be buried. </em>”</p>
<p>“<em> Just go, Chris! </em> ” screams Claire.  “<em>We’ll find a way out! </em>”</p>
<p>“<em>I’ll be back for you, Claire!  Don’t you dare die on me! </em>” he yells.</p>
<p>The shaft shakes and rumbles.  Claire jerks me into the observation deck, the jets of water soaking us. Sliced body parts splash against the viewing window frame.  The emergency lights in the observation deck and demonstration room flash red.</p>
<p>The automated voice says, <em> “The island will self-destruct in 60 seconds, 59, 58, 57…” </em></p>
<p>The blob splits open and roars.  Its fangs glisten like yellow knives.  Tentacles latch onto the observation deck framework.  The room groans and shakes.  We grab hold of the nearest bolted chair.  The room tilts down, and the water hits us from behind.  It smashes into the blob, smacking it against the far wall.  The tentacles whip free and the waves drown the thing's screams.</p>
<p>The ocean crashes over us, filling the room.  Debris swirls and sinks like heavy snow.  A cement chunk hits Claire.  Eyes closed, she lets go of the chair.  I grab her and drag her into the open sea.  I swim toward the sun, gleaming like a bright, white beacon through the darkness around us.</p>
<p>The automated voice echoes through the water:  <em> "Fifteen, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10…" </em></p>
<p>A tentacle wraps my leg.  We sail backward.  I let go of Claire and watch her drift toward the light.  </p>
<p>I close my eyes.</p>
<p>
  <em> “Five, 4, 3, 2, 1 --” </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0046"><h2>46. Chapter 45</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 45</b>
</p>
<p>
  <em> A loud boom.  A rumbling vibration. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Rising.  Floating for a long time.  Falling. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Hands on me, dragging me out of the liquid. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Someone telling me to -- </em>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0047"><h2>47. Chapter 46</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Chapter 46</b>
</p>
<p>“Wake up!  Come on, <em> wake up </em>!”</p>
<p>A hand slaps me.  Fingers pinch my nose.  Lips cover mine.  Hot air fills my lungs, forcing the water into my throat.</p>
<p>I choke out the water and gulp salty air.   I’m lying on sand.  It’s as warm, silky, and smooth as I imagined -- <em> remember </em> it would feel.  Someone hugs me tight.</p>
<p>“Oh, <em> thank God </em>,” Claire laughs, wiping away her tears.  The bright sun haloes her.  </p>
<p>“Lady, you have a bad habit of slapping me awake,” I croak.</p>
<p>“Shut up,” she says, laughing again as she strokes my hair.  “I thought you were gone.  Your heart wasn’t beating.”</p>
<p>I push her wet bangs behind her ear.  “Regenerative powers, remember?” </p>
<p>Her beautiful eyes touch mine.  My heart thumps loudly.  My face grows hot.  Claire smiles.  She leans into me, and I lean into her.</p>
<p>An explosion shakes the ground.  We jump apart.  We’re on a small beach, waves gently lapping the shore.  Fire blazes across the cliff above us.  Black smoke billows like a stormcloud, a shadow that eclipses the sun.</p>
<p>A chopper whirs past the smoke.  The letters “BSAA” superimposed over a globe adorn the flank.  Redfield stands in the open door, his hand looped through an overhead strap.  He points at us. The chopper descends, the gust from the blades scattering the sand.  Before the landing skids even touch down, he jumps out.  </p>
<p>Laughing, he runs to Claire and throws his arms around her.  “I thought I'd lost you, baby sister!”</p>
<p>“You almost did,” she says.  “Snake got me out.”</p>
<p>“Steve’s fine," I say.</p>
<p>Claire smiles at that.</p>
<p>“So <em> you’re </em>Steve.”</p>
<p>A pale woman with a blond ponytail tucked under a BSAA cap stands behind Redfield.  She’s the woman from the opening ceremony who’s in Redfield’s photos.</p>
<p>“I’m Jill," she says, extending her hand.  "It’s nice to finally meet you.” </p>
<p>I shake it.  “Nice to meet you, too.”</p>
<p>“Lucky you showed up when you did,” says Redfield.</p>
<p>“I’ll say.  If we hadn’t dragged you onboard, you might’ve gone up with the complex.”  Jill jerks her thumb at the six uniformed men aboard the chopper. Shielding her eyes with her cap visor, she looks at the flames licking the sky.  “As evil as this place is, it’s a shame it went up.  We might have gotten all sorts of data about Gaea, maybe even nailed whatever’s left of them.  But the important thing is you three got out.  We’ve got supplies -- blankets, food, water.  Take what you need and get some rest.  You’ll need it for when we take your statements.  I’ll be in after I make a status update.”</p>
<p>Redfield places a hand on her arm. “Thanks again, Jill.”</p>
<p>She cups his hand.  “You did the same for me once, remember?  Now go rest, Chris.  You need it.  All of you do.”</p>
<p>Redfield and Claire head for the chopper.  I start after them, but Jill touches my shoulder.</p>
<p>“I’m glad someone else got away,” she says.  “It gives me hope that there are more of us still alive out there.”</p>
<p>“'Us?’”</p>
<p>“Survivors.”</p>
<p><em> ‘Survivors.’ </em> I like that.</p>
<p>“Thanks.  Me too,” I say.</p>
<p>She pats my shoulder and digs out a recording device.  I run after Redfield and Claire, the spinning rotors blowing my hair and clothes like the sand.  The waves rush the beach, sure and steady as breath.</p>
<p>
  <em> She spent most of her free time on the beach away from everyone, including me... </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> And you need to show me that beach you used to go to, the one that’s on the other side of the island... </em>
</p>
<p>I take out the chip that Trish gave me.  It's still sealed within the cap.</p>
<p>I climb aboard the chopper.  Claire and Redfield are sitting with the agents, munching crackers and chugging water as they all talk.  Claire has a gray blanket wrapped around her.  More blankets, crackers, and water bottles as well as comm devices, laptops, and ammo clips fill the equipment rack in the back. Taking a laptop, I boot it up and insert the chip.</p>
<p>A folder opens.  Dozens of sub-folders load -- folders with names like "Employee Directory," "Clients," and "Human Trials." </p>
<p>Jill climbs inside.  "All right, pack it in and move it out!"</p>
<p>"Hey Jill, I've got something," I say as I pass the laptop to her.</p>
<p>She scrolls through the folder.  "This is it. This is what we…"  She stops at a sub-folder labeled <em> To Steve </em>.</p>
<p>Giving me the laptop, she says, "I'll need this back when you're done."</p>
<p>Barking at the pilot, she takes a seat on Redfield's other side.  I sit near the rack. As the chopper rises, I take a deep breath and click the folder.</p>
<p>Hundreds of files load.  They detail everything about me and the T-Veronica strain within me: medical records, x-rays, progress reports that Dr. Cabot sent to Conrad Steele, acquisition plans for Umbrella’s decimated and abandoned Rockfort Island facility.  Rockfort Island is the birthplace of the T-Veronica virus.  The woman who created it, Alexia Ashford, tested it on herself and then on me.</p>
<p>
  <em> That crazy woman.  Mistress. </em>
</p>
<p>She died in December 1998 when her Antarctic base exploded, thanks to Claire and Redfield-- but not before HCF took my body.  They then peddled it until they found an interested buyer in Conrad Steele. To skirt legalities, he and the board maintained an office in Los Angeles but ran operations on Rockfort, renamed Coeus Island, far from the mainland.   All of HCF’s e-mails to Steele are signed with two letters: AW.</p>
<p>My and my father’s Umbrella profiles are in one file.  My full name is Steven Theodore Burnside, and his is Alan Theodore Burnside.  He was a pharmaceutical researcher, like Claire said. His supervisor became suspicious of him when formula files went missing.  Umbrella took us on July 18, 1998. They killed my mother, Odette Riviere-Burnside, because she wouldn’t let them take me.</p>
<p>I was born April 12, 1981.  I’m 28.  I woke up right before my birthday.</p>
<p>The last file is entitled, “I’m sorry.”  I click it.  A white document pops up.</p>
<p>
  <em> Steve, </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Even though I’ve known your real name for a few days now, it seems so strange to call you that.  I’ve started this letter I don’t know how many times. Claire is in the lab by herself, making sure you’re okay, while I’m at the guest house looking for supplies, so I’ll keep this short: </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> There’s another reason why I never told you the truth.  I was afraid you’d try to leave and either die or succeed and leave me here alone.  I didn’t realize how lonely I was until I met you.  Before you, I’d never had a real friend.  And I was afraid that if you knew, I’d go back to being alone again. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Claire showed me the picture of you and your family.  She told me about you and them, and I can tell that they loved you a lot.  I can’t tell you how happy and jealous I am that so many people care so much about you. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I did you wrong, Steve.  I lied to you.  I betrayed you.  I hurt you and the people you care about.  Worst of all, I denied you the truth that you deserved to know.  I did all of that to my best friend, the only person I’ve ever cared about more than myself, just because I was selfish and scared.   </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> I understand if you can’t or won’t forgive me.  But I hope with all of my heart that you do, and that one day we can find out what it’s like to be friends. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Merry Christmas, Steve. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Love always,<br/></em>
  <em>Trish</em>
</p>
<p>My vision blurs.  My throat burns.  Wiping the tears, I touch my pocket to make sure Trish’s ID card is still inside.</p>
<p>Clearing my throat, I hand the laptop to Jill.  “Could I, uh, get a copy of all of the stuff that’s about me?”</p>
<p>As she takes the laptop, she, Claire, and Redfield watch me.  “Sure. We just have to wait until we get back to the base so we can find a secure drive to put everything on,” Jill says.</p>
<p>Nodding, I grab a blanket and return to my seat.  Claire sits beside me, her own blanket still cocooning her.  She hands me the photo of my family.  The sunlight catches our three faces -- faces I might’ve never remembered if it weren’t for the woman next to me.</p>
<p>“Claire, thank you for never giving up on me,” I say.</p>
<p>She smiles.  “I could never give up on someone who did what you did for me, Steve.”</p>
<p>A distant black tower of smoke blots the clear, blue sky.  Coeus Island, formerly Rockfort Island, burning once again.  My world first for five months, and then again for nine months.  The place where I lost my humanity.  The place where people who cared enough about me helped me find it again.</p>
<p>“I wonder what’ll happen to it,” I say.</p>
<p>“The same thing that happened to Raccoon City.  The fire will burn until it goes out or the rain puts it out.  The island’ll be a wasteland for a while.  And then one day, life will return,” says Claire.  “What do you say we join the others?”</p>
<p>As I tuck the photo in my jacket pocket, we claim the two empty seats beside Redfield.  He’s saying, “Which base are we headed to, anyway?”</p>
<p>“Roosevelt Army base, in Hawaii,” says Jill.</p>
<p>“Great.  I hear Hawaii's nice this time of year,” I say.</p>
<p>Claire laughs.</p>
<p>“What's so funny?” I ask.</p>
<p> “I'll tell you later," she says.</p>
<p>The sun glows red as it falls ahead of us, filling the chopper with sleepy light.  The ocean glitters like a snow-blanketed field on a bright winter day.  Claire rests her head on my shoulder and closes her eyes.  Her breathing slows.  Every now and then, she twitches.  She's dreaming about something.</p>
<p>How <em> would </em> she feel about me kissing her?  I want to know, but there are other things I need to know first.</p>
<p>Redfield, Jill, and the agents fall asleep.  I want to fall asleep too, but I keep watching the horizon for Hawaii.</p>
<p>I've already slept so much.  This is one day I want to be awake for.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0048"><h2>48. Epilogue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Epilogue</b>
</p>
<p>The sun rests on the ocean like a watchful red eye.  I pluck a white rose from the dozen that Claire bought.  The sunlight paints it pale gold.</p>
<p>“This one is for my dad,” I say.  “I’m sorry I had to do what I did.  I hope you understand.”</p>
<p>I drop the rose in the lapping water.  Plucking another rose, I hold out the remaining ten.</p>
<p>“These are for my mom, and Sylvia, and the people who were killed so I could live, and the people who wanted to leave but didn’t make it.  I promise I’ll make each day count.”</p>
<p>I toss the roses in the water.</p>
<p>“And this one is for my best friend, Trish.  I don’t think you knew how brave you really were.  Thank you for everything you did for me.  I’ll always love and miss you, Trish.”</p>
<p>Kneeling, I lay the rose in the water.  It twirls as the waves wash it and the others out to sea to meet the sun.  Exhaling, I sit cross-legged.  The sand feels silky and warm.</p>
<p>Claire sits beside me.  Smoothing her red halter dress that she bought in town today, she undoes the white wildflower fastened in her bun.  She places the flower in the water and then takes my hand in hers. Chris tosses in another wildflower picked from the same bunch.  The two flowers swirl around each other and then float after the roses.  He squats on my other side.  Biting a cigarette, he lights up and exhales a curling stream of smoke.  His phone buzzes.  He flips it open and types something.</p>
<p>“Jill says the Plaga deal she was investigating involved HCF.  So that's where Mitchell's Type 2 came from,” he tells me.  “She also says they finished processing the employee names.  They'll notify all of the families so they can make arrangements.  If you want, we’ll personally notify Sylvia’s family and the orphanage where Trish grew up.”</p>
<p>“It should be me who notifies the orphanage.  I’ll call them as soon as I get to Vermont,” I say.</p>
<p>He nods.  “What time are you leaving?”</p>
<p>“Late,” I say, “but since it’s Christmas Eve, I’m catching the evening bus to the airport.”</p>
<p>“I’m finally free,” says Jill, emerging from the jungle footpath.  She’s wearing a blue button-up and khaki shorts. “I’m still miffed that I missed shopping and pizza, but unexpected rescue missions and paperwork come with the job.  Graciously, the troops have invited us to their Christmas feast.  The fireworks go off after sunset.  We'd better head back before the food's gone."</p>
<p>“Thanks, but I'm about to head out,” I say, grabbing my bag as I stand.  “Got a late flight home."</p>
<p><em> Home</em>.  The word still sounds weird to me, like my name, birthday, and everything else about me.  But it's a good kind of weird.  A kind that makes me see myself differently, makes the possibilities endless.</p>
<p>"You know you're welcome to stay here with us," Jill says.  "We're not leaving until after tomorrow.  Can't pass up the opportunity to spend Christmas in Hawaii."</p>
<p>"Yeah, I know.  But I got some things to take care of.  And considering how lucky I got booking this flight on Christmas Eve, I think it’s a sign I should take care of them sooner rather than later."</p>
<p>"I copy that.  Before you go, though, we should get a photo of all of us with that beautiful sunset."</p>
<p>Chris tucks the cigarette behind his ear, and we squish together.  Jill holds out her phone to take the photo. Then she takes a photo of me, Chris, and Claire and one of just me and Claire.</p>
<p>"What's your number?" Jill asks.</p>
<p>"Send 'em to me," says Chris.  He pulls a cord out of his pants pocket and winds the cord around his phone.  He passes it to me.  "Here.  A little Christmas loan until you get your own.  The passcode is 78277."</p>
<p>"Are you sure --?"</p>
<p>"Positive.  Just contact us every now and then to let us know you're okay.  And don't go jumping into any rivers with it."</p>
<p>I pocket it.  "I'll make sure you get it back in one piece."</p>
<p>Jill hugs me.  "Good luck, Steve."</p>
<p>Chris extends his hand.  I shake it.  "Safe travels, Steve.  I hope you find what you're looking for," he says.</p>
<p>"Thanks, Chris."</p>
<p>“I’ll meet you guys up there,” Claire says to Chris and Jill.</p>
<p>He nods and takes a drag off his cigarette.  “We’ll save you a spot at the table.”</p>
<p>Waving, Chris and Jill start down the footpath into the jungle.  </p>
<p>"Speaking of safe, I thought you were going to quit smoking," Jill says.</p>
<p>He shrugs.  "It's a process.  Doesn't happen overnight."</p>
<p>"Right…"</p>
<p>The sun is almost gone.  Stars pierce the violet sky like bullet holes.  The moon hangs half-full above us.  The crashing waves fill the evening like music.</p>
<p>“You’ve been really quiet since we got back,” I say.</p>
<p>“You don’t have to go tonight,” Claire says.  “You could stay with us so you aren’t alone for Christmas.  Your parents wouldn’t want you to be alone.”</p>
<p>“Claire, I told you why I have to leave tonight --”</p>
<p>“But everything is closed tomorrow, Steve.  What will you do if your house is gone?  Or everyone who knew your family has left?  Or you can’t remember anything, or you remember something bad?  What if something happens to Chris’s phone and you can’t call us?  What if the temp card doesn’t work and you can’t get a hotel?  What if something happens to you and you disappear again?”</p>
<p>“I don't have all the answers, Claire.  But if I want any, I <em> have </em> to go home.  Tonight.  So I can start trying to piece my memory back together.” </p>
<p>“But you don’t have to try alone.  If you wait, we can try together.  I can take off work and go with you to your hometown or wherever you want to go.  The Raccoon research center maybe, so they can start working on a cure --”</p>
<p>“It's not about being alone, and it's not about getting cured.  It's about finding out who I am.”</p>
<p>“I know who you are, Steve.”</p>
<p>“You know a <em> piece </em> of who I am.  I need to know the rest so even if I never remember it, I can feel like a whole person.”</p>
<p>She wraps her arms around me.  I stroke her hair.  The waves have slowed to a gentle rhythm.  Holding her close, I start to sway.  She sways with me.</p>
<p>I sing,<em> “I'll be home for Christmas.  You can plan on me.  Please have snow, and mistletoe, and presents on the tree.  Christmas Eve will find me where the love light gleams.  I'll be home for Christmas, if only in my dreams...” </em></p>
<p>"Steve," she says, pulling back so our eyes meet.  “I don’t want you to leave."</p>
<p>She leans into me.  Her breath caresses my skin like a warm breeze. </p>
<p>I lean into her.  "Claire, I…"</p>
<p>An explosion makes us jump apart.  Red and green fireworks light up the night.  I whip out Chris’s phone.  The battery is dead.</p>
<p><em> “The bus </em>,” I say.</p>
<p>We run through the jungle and across the base.  The bus sits by the shelter, motor purring, as a group of soldiers boards.  I snap on the eyepatch that the base gave me.</p>
<p>"Steve, wait."  Reaching into her bag, she pulls out a small box wrapped in red tissue paper.  “I got this for you in town today.  Don't open it until tomorrow.”</p>
<p>I take the box and flip up the eyepatch.  “Claire, I don’t know what to say.  Thank you.  I wish I’d thought to get you something --”</p>
<p>“You being alive is the greatest gift I could ask for,” she says.</p>
<p>The last soldier climbs aboard.</p>
<p>"Claire, I have to tell you something," I say.  "I remembered what I said to you all those years ago.  And I...I still feel the same way."</p>
<p>Her eyes glisten.  "Oh, Steve."</p>
<p>She throws her arms around me and kisses me.  I drop my bag and hold her close, deepening our kiss.  The bus honks.  We break apart, my hand in hers.  Flipping down my eyepatch, I pick up my bag, and we jog to the bus.</p>
<p>“Call me as soon as you land,” she says.</p>
<p>“I will.  I promise,” I say.</p>
<p>“Merry Christmas, Steve,” she says, smiling.</p>
<p>“Merry Christmas, Claire,” I say.</p>
<p>We kiss again.  The bus driver blows the horn.  As I climb the steps, her hand slips out of mine.  I sit by the window.  She waves as the bus chugs forward.  I wave back.  The bus circles and starts toward the base entrance.  She disappears into the firework-lit night.  I trace the gift she gave me and gingerly set it in my bag.</p>
<p>The ride is long.  So are the lines to pick up my plane ticket and get on the plane.  Both wind past a Christmas tree -- fake, of course.  As soon as we’re in the air, my hunger hits me.  Since I had pizza today, I order a medium-rare steak.  The Christmas movie playing is an old black and white deal that I saw on HBO, so I dig out the plane headphones.  Beside the headphones outlet is a regular outlet. I plug in the headset and Chris’s phone.  Christmas music fills my ears.  A bunch of messages from JILL VALENTINE pop up: the photos that Jill took of us followed by a text:</p>
<p>
  <em> Steve, this is Claire.  Jill is letting me use her phone.  I’m reminding you not to open your present until Christmas AND to call me as soon as you land! </em>
</p>
<p><em> “This is your captain letting you know it is midnight Hawaii standard time, so it is officially Christmas,” </em> says the pilot through the intercom.  <em> “We want to wish you happy holidays and remind you to choose us for your next holiday getaway...” </em></p>
<p>I dig out Claire’s gift and open it.  It’s a black wallet like the one her dad gave her.  I open it.  A small paper scrap falls from the wallet’s empty photo booklet.  The paper says:</p>
<p>
  <em> Dear Steve, </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Bad times come and go.  That's why it's important we cherish the good times.  I thought you could use this to store your happy memories so you can look back on the good times! </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em> Love always,<br/></em>
  <em>Claire</em>
</p>
<p>I put the photo of my family in the first slip and Trish’s ID and the computer drive in the next.  The photos that Jill took will go in the next slips.  What will follow them...who knows?</p>
<p>Frank Sinatra’s “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" starts playing.  Leaning against the window, I shut my eyes.  They grow heavy.  I let my mind wander into the void between wakefulness and sleep -- reality and dreams.</p>
<p>In it, I can hear the woman with the sweet voice singing.  My mom sings:</p>
<p><em> “Here we are as in olden days </em> <em><br/></em> <em> Happy golden days of yore </em> <em><br/></em> <em> Faithful friends who are dear to us </em> <em><br/></em> <em> Gather near to us once more </em></p>
<p><em> Through the years, we all will be together </em> <em><br/></em> <em> If the fates allow </em><br/><em> Hang a shining star upon the highest bough </em> <em><br/>And have yourself a merry little Christmas now...”</em></p>
<p>
  <b>the end.</b>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thank you so much to anyone who read this.  Special thanks to anyone who dropped me a comment/review or even just a like.  Please know that I appreciate it all, and I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. -Akumu</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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